


Blood on the Covers

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Kill Tonight [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime, Crimes & Criminals, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 84,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now he needed to parcel out parts of his life with costume changes and different personas and he didn't have the space or the time when things ran together. The thing with Lestrade made it all worse, shoving together all of the parts of him into one place.</p>
<p>He would've killed John in a heartbeat and now John was all that kept him going forward most days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

New Scotland Yard was honestly nowhere that Seb ever wanted to set foot in. He never wanted to go there and he worked very hard to not get caught so he’d never end up having to go there. He didn’t handle captivity well, and it felt like walking into a trap, given what day it was. He didn’t even want to be working a fucking job, but John had gone off to work his shift like it was nothing at all, just another day, so what else could he do?

He could stand in the elevator and remember what Jim’s soft palate had felt like under his fingers, because it had been a long fucked up year that had settled… All right. But he was a sucker for anniversaries, always had been. Remembered the dates and rough times all of his men had ever died, too, had to take a moment for the best first sergeant he’d ever had, had to remember Jim just the same. 

Seb rubbed at his right wrist, touching the comforting leather strap that was something easy for him to fuss with when he got antsy. It was all psychological, sure, but everything was. The whole world was. A car backfiring was enough to make him hit the deck and ruin his whole fucking day. He was a mess of routines and quiet structures to maintain himself, to help John. He straightened his suit cuffs, and settled into his own fucking head to get this shit done, never mind that going to speak to a detective inspector on his own turf made every instinct he had scream in warning. He just needed to get it done, maybe swing by, and pick John up from the hospital at the end of his shift. Short circuit a lot of bad trains of thought.

Why the fuck did Mycroft always plant shit on him when he had other plans?

The armed officers outside set his hackles up, and the security screening to continue along meant that he’d had to leave his car better armed than he was. The pat-down was rage inducing, but he managed it, seeing himself to the elevator up to the floor Mycroft had told him to head to. He got some funny looks as he headed in but Lestrade seemed to be expecting him from the way he looked up from within the glass walls of his office and signaled to one of the detectives to let him in.

Pretty little lady, fierce look in her eyes. It made Seb wonder what asshole part she'd played a year ago. Surely one of Sherlock's many Judases. "Detective Inspector. Mr. Holmes told me to be here."

"Ah, Colonel Moran. Yes, come in and have a seat," Lestrade said giving him an automatic assessing gaze. "Mr. Holmes” -- there was just a faint hint of something when he said that -- "has recommended you as, well, an external source of information regarding a case we stumbled into, which is of the highest importance." He relaxed a little when the door shut, but the man was worried.

Worried policemen were the worst sort, wrapped up in a hundred pressures and liable to react with a trigger pull, proverbial or not, at the slightest provocation. They just wanted things safe. Seb walked in closer, stood in front of the man's desk. He sat up straighter in reaction. "You're going to have to fill me in. He just told me to come here - there wasn't any back brief."

"I should've guessed," Lestrade said. "Mycroft Holmes is as infuriating as his brother ever was. We were called out to a homicide down in the docklands. First glance put it as some sort of drug deal gone wrong and that was probably what we were meant to think. Contrary to popular belief, we're not without any detective skills ourselves here and there were some anomalies." He passed over a slim file to Seb.

"Docklands, docklands... No, the big boys aren't allowed to fight in the docklands." Too many warehouses, too many things stored out there.

He flipped through the folder briefly, once, and then more slowly. All of the names were half familiar. "Huh. I know Willie." Wife, ex wife, two kids, mortgage problems, smuggled things the old fashioned way in the converted boot of his car.

"Right," Lestrade replied. "He's been on our books a while. We wouldn't have thought much of it until one of our trainee techs was given his phone to recover data as an exercise, in the hope of mopping up some small fry. That's when we recovered this."

He held up a phone and the text said, "Bishop to Queen's 4, Pawn takes Knight".

"We've all heard rumors about Bishop. He, she, it or them...hell, we don't even know if it's a group or a person, but Bishop is far from small fry."

“Pawn takes knight." Seb leaned back, snagged himself a chair because now he knew he was going to be there a while. "I'd say that's the next move, because whatever just happened in the Docklands? Willie wasn't a 'knight'. Unless some move against their side has occurred." Then again, who announced to the world that someone had taken out one of their men? Then again, queen. What if it wasn't the queen in the symbolic sense, but the actual queen? "So we've got a signature sort of bait message on the phone of a two bit smuggler." 

"Or could it be that whatever Willie was smuggling was 'Knight'?" Greg Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "It's the Queen's 4 that has got everyone scurrying around. Is that the target, a contact? Is there a literal connection with the Queen... we're punching at fog here."

"Bishop." Seb tapped the edge of the folder against his mouth, trying to remember what he'd heard about Bishop. "I'm fairly sure he or they, maybe she, fuck, who ever knows, right? Is an assassin team."

Lestrade looked grim. "Shit." he said finally, though it looks like he wanted to say a lot worse. "So perhaps this is the next move and Knight is the actual assassin needing transporting?"

"I'll be honest, assassins usually transport themselves. I'll get my own fool arse in and out of a target country, thanks. The less people involved the less chance of detection." He rubbed at his right wrist for a moment, staring at the file. "No, we're barking up the wrong tree."

"I can see why Mycroft recommended you," Lestrade said. "In what way up the wrong tree?"

"Not sure. I don't think this is Bishop leaving messages. I mean, let's be honest. You can kill a fuckload of people, without making it a game. For some sorts, a job is a job. They're going to get in, do it, and get out. No one sane sends the cops taunting messages, honestly."

Jim had never really been sane.

"Maybe they didn't think we would recover it?" Lestrade suggested. "It did have to be recovered with specialist equipment. Willie wasn't the sharpest tool in the box."

Which was indicative right there.

"Willie was a good smuggler because he never double crossed a customer. He wasn't smart at all, though. I'm just going to say it again -- the world isn't a fucking comic book for criminals. Moriarty was a one-off ho really, really got off on making idiots out of the rest of the world. 'Bishop' didn't send that message."

"So who did?" Lestrade said. "And what was Willie to do to with it?"

"If I didn't know Sherlock Holmes was dead, I'd say the message was from him." Seb rubbed at his wrist again, before holding the folder out to Lestrade. Fuck. "Or there are a few other people who think themselves above the fray. I'll go out and prod a few of them. A couple come right to mind, actually." Irene, a couple of other operatives. Irene liked to misbehave. Irene hated talking to him, so someone else would have to do that. "I'd say that'd be a place to start."

"They won't talk to us," the detective inspector said. "That would help. So you think this was a heads up?"

"But not from the criminals we're looking for. From someone else." Seb stood up again, feeling restless, too open and at risk. He pulled a pen out of his pocket. "Here, I'll leave you my number, if you'll give me a way to contact you. We can get this sorted quick, I think."

"You can have mine," Lestrade said looking a little relieved. "You're living with John right? You might let him take a look at this. He's picked up some detective skills along the way. If he wasn't a Doctor, I would have persuaded him to try his hand at detective after, well..."

John would've made a fantastic fucking detective, but medical school was a hell of an investment to turn one's back on, and he was good at it. Still. Seb had to take a moment to squint at the man, grasping for words, because fuck, really? Really, fucking Mycroft Holmes. "Do you mind if I ask how you know that? About John? Because as far as I know, I've never seen you saw boo to him and it's been a fucking year. You lot are assholes."

"I never had anything against John," Lestrade said, even if he did look a little grim. "I've kept tabs on him, kept some of the press away from him until it died down. There was a real shit-storm thrown up and he was in no state to deal with the fall out. That was all I could do… otherwise it would look like the Police supported him."

There was a moment where he had to look down at the floor because it was that or punch the man, and he wasn't going to punch a detective inspector in his office. "And what about his friends? You lot just scattered." And left John wide open for Seb. He rubbed at the edge of his jaw. "Ah, fuck it, and fuck all of you. Give me your damn number. I'm not letting you wolves get to John."

Lestrade looked like he was going to answer, but held it back, grabbing a business card and handing it over. "I'd appreciate anything that you can give me on this," he said formally.

His jaw clenched as he reached for it, but he still managed to smile at the man, all teeth and feeling angry behind his eyes. At least now they were being open about what they were getting into, both of them. Christ, keeping tabs on John, was there anyone who wasn't keeping tabs on John? Probably just Jim and that was only because he was a fucking corpse. "I'll work with you on this because Mycroft Holmes asked me to. And I'll call you back if I find anything on Willie. And you'll continue to leave John the hell alone right now. If he wants to help, fine, but *you* lot... No."

"Fine," he acknowledged, nodding to him. "If we have anything, I'll send it over."

He pocketed the card, and turned to let himself out. He took the time to stare down two or three of the watching detectives as he passed, and then had to stand in front of the elevator waiting for it to arrive. Fuck fuck fuck, fuck. He took a deep breath, and wasn't going to kick or hit anything until he was in the elevator. No wonder Jim'd played them so easily -- they were fucking spineless, all of them. A string pull here, a mask there, and done, ready to finish off a friend. 

Ready to suggest airily and like everything was all right that John would be a great asset if Seb wanted to pull him in. So, what, they could turn on him again? No, no, he wasn't going to do that. Fuck.

John wasn't protected, he was a protector, he knew that much. He took what people chucked at him and just… carried on. Seb knew that from what he had thrown at John himself. He didn't demand, he didn't do anything that was selfish just for him and that was alien to him after Jim. Completely goddamn alien and he'd tested that a few times and each time John just...did what was best for him.

It was fucking maddening, so he'd started to work hard to not throw as much shit at John. He was handling himself, and he was working to protect the protector, because John didn't... need that, particularly. But he could certainly use it. Wanted it, maybe.

Seb took a deep breath, and the elevator doors opened. He waited until they'd closed behind him to kick the inside of the door, hard, growling under his breath, because, fuck.

Fucking Mycroft Holmes.

Who was sending messages about Bishop? Someone with a short life span. Bishop didn't take to people fucking around with their name. It was the sort of name people heard about.

Heard and went 'Well, I'm not getting involved'. 

He'd calmed down by the time he saw himself out of the building, or at least he felt better. He kept his focus, drove over to Willie's house, knowing the wife'd be in. She was stay at home, wanted to take care of the kids, with a side of unemployment. Seb knew enough about all of his employees to be useful, to be sympathetic and threatening in equal turns when it was needed. He still parked his car up the street a bit, and walked to the house, knocking hard on the door. It was a bad part of town, all told.

He could hear a young kid yelling "Mum, there's someone at the door, someone innna SUIT," as he stood there and eventually footsteps coming to the door.

"What part of no...? Oh, Mr. Moran, I'm sorry, I thought it was the police again."

"Bunch of useless sods. I just heard about Willie, Mrs. Jenkins. Wanted to come by and see if you were all right." He took her hand in more of a clasp than a shake. Willie wasn't one of Seb's hits, he hadn't *done* anything. It was like working a nine to five, and the man honestly shouldn't have been dead. He'd never stepped out of line once. A man didn’t have to be brilliant to be dead useful. "Can I come in for a minute?"

She looked a little skittish, but nodded after giving a cursory glance around. "Come on in." She was a strong, no nonsense sort of woman, but he could see the tell-tale puffy eyes and clenched jaw of her holding it together the best she could.

It felt like the handful of other times he'd made that visit, after the official word came around because it was the right thing to do, because officials were assholes. "I'd ask if you're doing all right, but I know that's a daft question. I don't know who killed Willie, but I aim to find out. Your husband was good at his job, never stepped out of line. He deserved better than that."

"Yes, he did," she said. "I know they scoff but he believed in the whole being as good as his word. You want a job done, Willie did it, and he did it for the agreed price in the agreed time. He wasn't big time." Mrs. Jenkins started to sound angry and on the verge of tears.

"I know." He stayed in the doorway, watching her rattle around the living room, but it was closed behind him. The little ones were in the other room, peeking around the corner. "It wasn't any of my jobs or any of my people, but someone did him for a job. Did he say anything about new clients the last couple of days?"

"Last I heard he was doing a job passed to him by Blakemore. But he's done loads of jobs for him before. Why would this be different?" She asked him. "Blakemore doesn't touch big stuff."

"Not things that seem big, no. Did he mention what the job was?" He needed to ask. He kept his hands in his pockets, watching the peeking kids absently.

"No, he... You could look through his bookings." She walked through into another room. "Take it, the police will try for a warrant. If they find anything here I could lose the life insurance."

"You'll need that." He followed her, at a comfortable distance -- interested, not close enough to make her feel threatened. "You have any bills that're outstanding or getting uncomfortable?"

"You offering? Because until probate’s settled I'm well and truly up shit creek," she said her voice cracking. "I can pay you back, but... when it's all been released. I'll pay you back."

He shook his head, looking down at the floor while he fished his wallet out. A handful of twenties would help. "Nah. Nah, just... There isn't enough honor among thieves, and I'm going to miss that about Willie. This'll keep you until a usual sort of bank transfer goes through."

She looked relieved. "Thank you, I appreciate it Mr. Moran." Mrs. Jenkins rifled through a pile of stuff and then got to a battered looking portfolio. She passed it over. "I hope it helps."

"It helps. I'd like to keep this from happening to anyone else." And the police wouldn't do anything, would stop at the one act, but Seb was going to see it through the right frigging way. He accepted the portfolio, and tucked it up under his arm. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Jenkins. I'll uh. See myself out." 

"Tell me when you get the bastard," she said. "Please. That's all I want to know." Her voice cracked again.

"I'll do that." He tapped a hand on his hip, and started towards the door. He wasn't in the mood for lingering, wasn't. Wasn't. Was trying hard to keep himself moving. "G'night, Mrs. Jenkins. I'll put the portfolio to good use." He didn't linger, and she'd already really had her last word. She wanted Willie avenged, and right. Right, he was all for it.

He shut the door behind him, and started towards his car at a jog. Blakemore was already in his phone, easy to dial up.

Why the hell was he running this down when he should be at home? Because he wanted to keep John out of it for a start. He dialed the number and got a rapid "Moran, what the hell do you want?" response when Blakemore picked up.

"Fucking hello to you, too." He started his car up, smacked the radio off right away. Started to absently pull his seatbelt on. "I'm calling about Willie. You ice him? I'm kind of fucking pissed about this, I liked my nice reliable smuggler.”

"Are you kidding me? Why would I ice him? He ran my regular channel to Eastern Europe, I'm out of pocket, too," Blakemore said. "Shit, I've got to sort out a replacement and not everyone could pull off that run. He had a good cover."

He pulled out into the flow of cars, eyes on the road. "You heard anything about what the fuck happened?" Probably not. Probably not, but he wanted to say he'd asked before he started going through Willie's record, before he went to wait for John to get off shift.

"Not a thing man,” he said. "If he was involved in something he picked up a contact off the books, the stupid bastard."

"No risk, no reward. Right, thanks. See you around." He hung up, and pressed his head hard against the headrest, still holding onto his phone.

Not the day he'd planned. And Bishop. And Bishop, Bishop to Queen 4. Pawn takes Knight. Who the fucking hell wrote that way? Fucking Lestrade and fucking Mycroft. It was time to go linger at the hospital. At a red light, he shrugged out of his suit coat. The next one, he took the necktie off, popped a couple of buttons, started to roll the shirt sleeves up. No reason to look scary as fuck when he was around John, or John's funny coworkers.

He didn't drop by there that often. Partly because he didn't like remembering things, like looking at John through the sight of his rifle and knowing he would have pulled the trigger. Just because Jim told him to blow him away. Before that hadn't bothered him, but now...

Now he was all fucked up and he'd gone soft. Now it bothered him. Now he needed to parcel out parts of his life with costume changes and different personas and he didn't have the space or the time when things ran together. The thing with Lestrade made it all worse, shoving together all of the parts of him into one place.

He would've killed John in a heartbeat and now John was all that kept him going forward most days.

Seb parked, lingering as he flipped through the portfolio for a first look, taking his time. There was nothing that jumped out at first glance, but it was usually the second look that did it for him. Willie did everyone by initials, and they all mushed together with him. He tucked it under the passenger seat, threw the suit coat in the back with the tie, and locked it behind him. Just kept rolling, all the way to the lobby.

John was standing talking with someone else when he entered, but noticed him easily. He smiled and bid farewell to the nurses he was talking to and headed over. "Hey Seb, wasn't expecting you here."

One of the nurses was lingering, smirking a little, and Seb gave a pleasant enough wave at her, lingering close to John. "Figured you might not want to ride the tube or get a taxi tonight. And, uh. I made dinner reservations. If you're interested."

"Yeah?" John seemed surprised at that. "I thought..." He cut himself off. "I'd love to go out for a meal. Sounds great."

He licked his bottom lip, watching John's surprised expression. It was a good surprise, and he didn't see enough of that on John. "Okay. Day's kind of gone to crap, and uh, I'm working with Lestrade of all people. But I think it can wait until later."

"Lestrade? Okay, I've got to hear about that." John seemed a little bit forced in his enthusiasm, but that was to be expected.

"Are you off your shift, or did I show up too early? I can go loiter in the lobby and read ancient magazines if I need to..." He didn't want to say a word about it in public, just. No, didn't want to say a word about it at all. Because Jim was dead and he'd really been ready to shoot John, and Lestrade and all of the cops wanted to straight up use him. 

"No, no, I'm done," he said. "Time to go. A good dinner will be great right now." John headed towards the door leaning on his cane, made it outside ahead of him. Seb let him, because he liked to linger and watch a little. When he got outside, he caught John standing stock still just staring up at the roof.

He didn't want to pull John away, but neither did he know what to do about it. John looked singularly alone, and yeah. He was a poor fucking stand in for Holmes, and it wasn't actually all right, but it was. Men got by on a lot less in life, even if he had always been an obsessive fuck.

"John." Seb said it quietly, and then put his hand on John's shoulder. He didn't mean for his voice to sound rough, because Jim'd died up there, too, and a lot of crazy brilliant plans with him, because Sherlock Holmes was just as smart and brilliant as Jim was. Maybe more and that was the pinnacle of Jim’s life for him. Finding an actual honest to god equal. Seb hadn't been enough there, either, just a poor loyal stand in.

"C'mon. Parked ‘round the side."

"Yeah, okay." John pulled away slowly as if he was fighting gravity but had dragged himself away. He didn't say anything about it. They still didn't really talk about the things before.

They might have to, someday, but Seb wasn't in a talking mood when his eyes felt hot and tight. He slid his arm over John's shoulders, because he couldn't fix it for John, either, didn't know the words to make it not-hurt. There wasn't any revenge to dole out that would help, and hell, he was a mostly responsible party. One day John’d snap to that fact and show him the door. Seb suspected he might even go without much of a fight.

John slid into the passenger side when they reached the car, and Seb took a moment, pressing fingertips over one eye before he started the car up. Fuck. It was really a nice car – good little Audi, comfortable with plenty of headroom for him, which was a novelty in most cars – and all he could think about was that he was sorry about the death of a man that he’d helped to tie the noose for. “One of my boys turned up dead in the docklands, with a funny text message on his phone. Bishop to queen 4. Pawn takes knight. Bishop’s a known assassin or team of them, but they didn’t leave that note. Not their, his, her, whatever, style. Lestrade wanted me to pull you into it, but. Today’s all the wrong day, and I haven’t got the head for this shit right now.” Looking back, he didn’t even think Lestrade knew what day it *was*. 

John listened though and said, "It's important though? Lestrade wouldn't have called unless he had to."  
It was important, Seb knew that. This was the way big events were orchestrated and if you were lucky you got a heads up from someone on the inside.

"It might be the wrong day, but..." John exhaled. "Maybe we could use a distraction. We might not be Holmes and Moriarty but we are not stupid."

"I wonder, some days." Seb pulled out of the parking spot, running it all through his head. "I was trying to think of who we know is a cryptic texter. Irene came to mind -- she's that sort. She also doesn't answer my phone-calls unless she wants immediate protection. And whatever that message was, Willie wasn't the knight taken by a pawn. He was good, steady smuggler. Had a good route through Eastern Europe, but he was more pawn material than anything." Why did it always have to be chess? And why did he have a sneaking suspicion that dinner was sort of. Going to fall through. Probably because it was.

"Okay, run me through it from the start," John said obviously starting to focus. "Mycroft sent you to Lestrade -- why didn't he contact you himself? He usually gives you orders direct... unless, what? He's too busy? He's involved? He needs to maintain distance?"

"Maybe all three. The question is, *why*." His need to not be seen as involved, his need to maintain distance wasn't some whim, it was there for a reason. Was it because of some suspected threat to the Queen, or...? Even just a hint of what was going on would've helped him just then, but as it was he was blind. All Seb had was a text and a dead smuggler. He looked sideways at John when he stopped at a red-light, trying to read his expression.

He looked thoughtful. "Lestrade has a phone where an incredibly important message is accidentally recovered. No competent people would do something so obvious. Lestrade always gets his trainees to do work like that. He told me, it kept them out of trouble. But who would know that?"

"Someone who knows the way Lestrade works his department. Someone who's worked with Lestrade before. Which means someone who thinks they're being an ally, not the assassins themselves." He made his mind up just then, decided he'd pull up to the restaurant, get dinner to go. Head back to the flat and start pouring over Willie's logbook.

"You’re right, Irene Adler springs to mind. She texts like breathing and... I know she's alive now." He was glancing at him sideways. "I guess you do, too?" 

The strange thing was there was a spark there in John he hadn't seen before. Something that now it was there he realized must have been missing. He'd never really thought why John had put up with Sherlock before, probably because he'd been dealing with the maelstrom of crazy that was Jim Moriarty. But thinking about it, the first question should have been why didn't John punch Sherlock in the nose and bugger off somewhere else? 

The obvious answer was that he liked it. All of it, the whole package, the brilliance, the man, the work. All of it. "Yeah, she contacted me shortly after Jim died. It did feel like her.”

"So we need to track her down and see if we can get any information about this organization," he said decisively. "There must be other leads we can follow that Lestrade can't."

John didn't seem to hold a grudge against the Detective Inspector, which was frankly alien to Seb. He should, Seb was sure of that.

Hell, Seb did. "I've talked with Willie's widow, and gotten his portfolio. They're in the backseat under my jacket. Criminals won't talk to Lestrade, but if I can pick up Bishop's trail..." 

"What have you heard about them? What kind of jobs do they do?" John asked and he certainly was distracted now from what the day was, or gave the appearance of it.

"High profile assassinations. Mixed purpose -- sometimes sniping, poisoning, the odd bombing when required. Lots of poisonings, thinking about it." Seb took a turn, scanning the road. "Car bombs when needed. But they're very focused on killing individuals. It's their bread and butter."

"What's the process? I mean, how do people go about hiring an assassin?" John queried.

"Two ways," Seb offered, idling his way into traffic. "Klutzily, which usually involves showing up in bars looking shady and asking people who look like thugs if they know anyone who'll murder a leader. And then there are the old networks. People know people who know people. And you ask someone who actually can reach out and touch part of a criminal network. So say. When the Shining Path's drug smuggling wing wants an embassy done, hypothetically, they speak with someone in the government who opposes the presence of that country and is in their pocket. Those gov't people, who're probably on three or four different versions of the take, reach out to runners. The runners work it back up through their network, and..." Seb gave a roll of his shoulders. "It gets to me, and I decide who handles it once we negotiate the terms and goals. Because things like this, you might not get outcome A. You have to plan for other outcomes that'll cover the terms, and what about targets of opportunity, and..."

"...complex stuff," John muttered under his breath. "So this journal might have links to what...a runner?" 

It was possible they might find a hint of who allocated the job at least. That was two leads they could look at.

"Yeah. Willie had a few circles that used him, but we all play nice together. Mostly. So this'll be someone off the books, so to speak." And it'd gotten him killed, which wasn't smart in that retrospective way. "Do you uh -- skip dinner, get something to go, get back and work this?"

"You've made reservations though," John said though he seemed to like the idea. "I don't want to screw up your plans."

"Plans are flexible." Particularly once Seb worked it through his head a few times until he actually felt flexible. Hell, maybe he was just singularly caught up in time and dates and shit, because that was how he was. Linear. Just one more thing to work through. "Anyway, it's probably best to try to get a hold of Irene before she goes out for the night."

"You have a contact num- never mind, of course you do," John replied with a smile. He glanced at Seb, "I promise you we won't skip whatever you had planned for the last part of the evening."

He snorted, but the smirk he gave felt right, real. "I don't do nice things *just* for the sex." But it didn't hurt, particularly when John gave a quiet laugh that made him feel a bit better. It made the drive home easier, and once he parked he fished his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it to hand it to John. "Once in a lifetime chance to be frightened of how many people like doing bad things. She's under That Bitch."

"Don't get on with her?" John asked and he didn't flinch as he scrolled down and presumably found the number. "Shall I call?"

"I have a low tolerance on cracks about my sexuality from people who work for me." And that line was none, demarcated by dead bodies. But Jim liked her style, her beauty at manipulating people, so. Jim got what Jim wanted, which was the problem she'd ribbed him quite so uncomfortably hard over. "Please. Might be better from your number, though." He keyed open the flat, and waited for John to go in. John passed his phone back to him.

"No doubt she'll recognize it," John answered. "Okay, I'll do it from here." He wondered what she had manipulated John with – actually, stupid question. Sherlock most likely, in which case he was opening himself right up by calling, but he noticed John didn't flinch from those sorts of things.

John went into the flat, inputting the number into his own phone as he did so, leaving Seb to deal with the dinner even as he made the call. Seb stayed in the hallway, sitting down on the stairs as he called delivery. Chinese was good, always safe; dinner reservations were easy to cancel, because it wasn't as if anywhere he dealt with regularly wasn't used to his schedule changing at the drop of a hat -- or the whisper of a suspected hit on anyone else who might be in the building. It was all very routine. 

He stayed out on the stairs after he hung up, rubbing a hand up the back of his neck absently. Time to get the electric clippers out and tidy up his hair. He hated feeling shaggy. There were four texts on his phone from his men, and a portfolio of Willie's last couple of years of business in his hands.

It was all very routine.

* * *

He hoped Irene would be a little considerate, but he doubted it. John had been keeping a lid on things all day. He'd had to push it down hard, especially after the hit and run who had crossed his path in the casualty. He'd ended up doing surgery, too, when the spleen proved to be completely ruptured. He'd just had a hint of something... The same mop of curly dark hair to make the sense memories lurk at the edge of vision. 

But "The Woman" liked to play games and they weren't all nice ones. She was at least well-disposed to him by proxy -- he knew that Sherlock had been involved in saving her, even if Sherlock had never admitted it. The phone rang and he wondered if he was interrupting something. He didn't even know what time-zone she was in, nor what kinds of plans she had in the evenings or the days. Still, it rang through, two, three rings, was he actually going to end up going to voicemail?

"Dr. Watson. I'm surprised to hear from you." Her voice was perfectly composed, as it always had sounded, as if she had a smile and a secret just for him. He could imagine her with her hair pinned up and her makeup just perfectly so, maybe getting ready for a job. Not that it mattered. "Particularly on this auspicious day."

"Uh yeah." He grimaced and cleared his throat. "I wasn't calling about that." The weeks it had taken to discuss that with his therapist and he was still walking around as the walking wounded as she called it, but he was used to it now. No matter what Ella said, he pretty much knew he was going to be walking around with that particularly gaping loss inside for the foreseeable future. "We found something today, which had the hall marks of your involvement. A recovered text message on a phone of Willie Jenkins... Ring a bell?"

She was quiet in a way that lingered with suspicion, but John waited for her answer. “You’re very clever, John. But you’re supposed to take that information and run with it, not ask me how it got there. So you’re working with the detective inspector.”

"More like Seb is working with Greg Lestrade. I haven't seen him yet," John commented. "You know, then. Because taking it and running with it is more useful if we know the point of origin. It's not that we can't think of things it means, it's that there are too many options." Who was the target, who was the assassin for a start?

"Seb." Her mouth curved around the name funny he could hear it and then she gave a quiet, delighted sounding laugh. "*Sebastian*? Colonel Moran? Oh, John. John. We need to discuss your taste in friends, Dr. Watson." She was laughing quietly, and it made him oddly irked. "Oh. *Seb*, the hollow man himself. Really, I. Oh, my. Well, the information, it's a little piece of information I picked up from… a member of the opposition party, actually."

He bristled a little at the implied criticism of Seb and had to bite back a defense. "No more hollow than you Irene," he said. "When you say opposition, we want to know where to start looking. We've got too little context for the thing to make sense. "

"No, I think there's quite a bit less to dear Sebastian than he likes to pretend, no matter how delightful he is when he's angry." Her voice was smiling through the phone. "Oh, this is too good. Tell Sebastian that he needs to take you to the *usual* gathering on Friday night. My darling backbencher friend won't be there, but his contacts will be, as will the individual who hired poor Mr. Jenkins."

"Thank you for the information Irene," John said politely. No doubt Irene would find some way to get what she felt she was owed out of him. "I appreciate it."

"I'm sure you will. Good luck, John. I feel much better knowing that you're on the case. After all, you'll be invested in this one." And then she hung up. Just like that. Didn't even give him a chance to ask what she meant, and he doubted if he rang back that she'd answer.

Invested in it? What did that mean? That it affected people who he cared for or who were a part of his life. He was still contemplating it by the time Seb re-emerged into the flat. It was a little too easy that she let him know. Either it was another game or she really needed the information out there.

"So apparently you've got to take me to the regular Friday night meet up," he said glancing at Seb.

His expression shifted, from placidly blank to irked, and he glanced at the phone John was still holding in his hand. "Oh, bloody wonderful. How did this come up? You realize I try to keep you away from all of that, don't you?"

"Yes," John said patiently. "Apparently our elusive link is there. And uh, she now knows that we’re "friends". She had a few things to say about that too." Things he didn’t agree with. Seb wasn’t hollow, far from it. Damaged, hurt, yes, but not completely empty. John knew the difference. 

Seb blinked once, twice, shook his head as he locked the door behind him. "I'm sure she did. You'll need a suit and a holster for your gun. It's part regimental ball and part criminal court, and all uncomfortable. No one liked it when Jim hosted it -- rotates among the families, organizations and gangs, every couple of weeks or so."

"And I'll be going as who?" John asked. Seb's pet? Maybe his assistant might be best as that could be innocuous. "Will she be there?" She might provide some background cover for him if so if she evidently knew him. Although maybe he did not want that sort of cover.

It was a bit of a mixed bag and he wasn't sure what side of that fence he wanted to fall on. "If someone brings her, yes. I suspect she will be." From Seb's carefully measured tone, it definitely wouldn't be him. "I... you'll go as whoever you like. There'll be assumptions made, regardless of how I introduce you." He set the portfolio down on John's desk, and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. 

"What sort of assumptions?" John asked. "Maybe we should just play into them." That seemed a sensible thing to do.

"You can guess the assumptions." Seb looked at him sideways as he carefully lit his cigarette, cupping his hands slightly. Not that he needed to in the apartment; it wasn’t as if there was a breeze to combat. "I managed being out in the military, and figured right from the start, what the hell. Who the fuck goes back in the closet at my age, just because it makes my fellow criminals uncomfortable?"

"It doesn't bother me, Seb," John said with a shrug. It wasn’t as if they were false assumptions, either. "Easier to play from truth, less things to be tripped up on. Look, I know you've been keeping me out of it and I appreciate it, but you don't need to worry about us to go with it."

"Yeah, well. Your coworkers are cute about it from what I can tell, and my 'coworkers' are generally unpleasant psychotics. I'm more concerned about you in general. If anyone asks, you're my doctor." He flicked the lighter closed, and inhaled slowly. "And we'll play our parts. Chinese takeout is on the way, and I should look at this portfolio. If we can get a jump before the soiree, I can do a little more digging."

John agreed with a nod, choosing not to mention anything about the smoking. He generally didn’t fight Seb too hard on his smoking, though he did hide packs when he came across them. More out of habit from Sherlock than anything else. It generally seemed to be a stress reaction, because he lit up with no warning and no care of whether he was standing beside a no smoking sign or not. "You okay, Seb?" he asked after a pause, watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling.

Seb gave a quiet laugh, and made a circular gesture, holding onto the cigarette like it was a lifeline. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. You?"

John looked at him again, at the tension around his eyes. "I've screwed up the evening haven't I?" He should have given more thought to how rattled Seb would be today. They had both lost someone, and they were generally trying to be more mindful of the other. And he’d screwed it up. "We can put this to one side for tonight. It's not like we can do anything much until Friday."

"No, but I might be able to put us there a little better forearmed." He ran a hand back through his hair, and then seemed to remember to crack a window so he didn't smoke John out. "Anyway, no plan survives contact with reality."

“Well that's true," John admitted. "You looking at the portfolio? It might make sense to you on the first run through at least."

"Yeah. Shouldn't take long." He pulled the chair out, and opened it, looking determined to... well, do something. It left John at a bit of loose ends -- did he lurk over Seb's shoulder, ask questions and try to get familiar with things, or just leave Seb to it?

He wandered for a moment, getting drinks out without even having to ask if Seb wanted one. Seb had been gathering quite the eclectic collection of alcohol, things to mix with each-other, but John went simple. They were going to be drinking rum and cola until the various types of rum ran out. 

In the end he put a drink down next to Seb and then sat so he could peer and catch glimpses of the information. It was that or face memories himself. He wasn't really up to that. 

Seb had finished his cigarette, and was flipping pages slowly, steadily. "So, Willie's code's pretty. Basic. Initials here -- See, J.M., S.M, R.B, that's another regular that I know he ran Eastern Europe for. Robert Blakemore, asshole, but a decent operator."

"Not him then?" John mulled it over. "Someone not his usual operator then? But then if this person is going to be at one of your meet or greets..." Did that mean they were someone close to Seb or a newcomer? Irene had implied a political source of information knowing about it.

"'Bishop', such as it is, isn't part of our circle. But someone in the circle might've made the contact for the hiring individual." He flipped between two pages, and then kept moving forward. "His wife said the job wasn't one of his usuals."

"So would it have been someone who knew his routes? That would imply prior knowledge," he chipped in. "Or are we making a list of them to tackle one by one. Irene said she got the information from one of the opposition. She implied politician."

"Doesn't really narrow the list down. I own a couple as well. Northerners, actually." Seb reached to take his glass, taking a sip before he looked over at John. "A.V. That's nothing that rings a bell."

"Maybe that's someone to try and target," John shifted a little. "Irene implied that it was good I was involved as I would have a stake in the outcome. I'm not sure what that meant... Unless it wouldn't be that you’re the target, would it?"

Seb laughed, turning his chair a little, one knee bumping John's thigh lightly. "Nah, who'd bother? Everyone gets their fair share, and I'm the funding behind quite a few other groups. They just don't know it."

"No one is likely to go after Harry, and… most other people I know are at the Hospital now," John said still worried at the idea. "You're the one most at risk Seb. Maybe you should look into your own safety."

He shook his head again, though. "This is a really expensive group to bring in to kill me. You don't need to smuggle anyone into the country for it. I'm pretty easy to get."

John could feel his mouth open and close as he tried to know what to say to that. He didn't want to think of Seb as easy to kill, not today of all days. "Not if I have anything to do with it," he said eventually.

Seb was watching his expression, and seemed to realize quite how horrible it sounded. "No, uh. Shit. Look, I'm not worth all of that trouble is what I'm saying. I, uh..." He set the glass down.

"Look, I don't want you thinking your life is cheap Seb," John said vehemently, even more so than he had intended. "It's not. I know what you are saying, but you should get used to thinking you are worth the trouble. Not just to me, but in your world as well. You're not the hired muscle you and Moriarty pretended you were. You’re the one in control."

John watched Seb's posture shift, tension sliding across his face. His leg relaxed a little, nudged up against John comfortably, in a bizarre contrast. "Yeah, well. I can't live like I'm the one in control, so I'll just keep doing what I do. That's a maddening level of isolation, John."

He put his arm around Seb, wanting to feel him close. The possibly of losing Seb filled John with an icy dread he couldn’t control. He didn't think he could stand to lose someone else he cared for, it would be like slowly bleeding out. "I just. Want you to be… careful. I've stood by enough gravestones."

"Yeah. It's been a hell of a..." He closed his eyes, and leaned into John. It felt good -- hell, maybe they just needed to re-schedule dinner for the next day and try over. "Year. Two. Hell of a couple of years. I have a bodyguard now. I just leave him at work."

He carded his fingers through Seb's hair as much to soothe himself as Seb and concentrated on the living man with him, in an attempt to push the ghosts away, just for now. Seb relaxed slowly against him; it was just too easy, almost too simple. "Then I'll have to do the job at home," he murmured kissing him softly. He wouldn't lose Seb, not if there was anything he could do about it.

* * *

The getting ready part was a pain in the fucking ass. It was like putting on a second skin, and John looked just as uncomfortable as they both wandered the bathroom.

"Pretend it's a regimental ball," Seb offered, staring himself down in the mirror while he took the electric clippers to his hair. He was very efficient at taking care of his own hair, trimming the edges straight, shaving up the back, tidying up the undercut. He glanced at John in the mirror, trimming the edges of the long bit he always parted left. He desperately didn't want John going. "There'll be just as many people looking for ways to undercut you as a regimental ball."

"Well thanks for that," John commented looking at himself with apparent dissatisfaction. "Where did you get this suit from anyway? It feels … tight."

It was properly fitted, that was the difference, and it didn’t come off a rack in M&S. “That's how clothes fit nowadays." He smirked checking, that he'd got it right. Good enough, so he reached for the hair product. Just a little, and he looked exponentially scarier. "It looks good."

"It feels like if I bend over it's going to rip," John complained, with wry humor. "So any do's or don't's?"

"Don't hit on anyone's woman," Seb offered, because it was the first thing that came to mind. "Do feel free to buy people drinks. It'll go on my tab and I don't care. Best social lubricant in the world. Stay close to me until I get a feel for the atmosphere. If it's all right, you can go circulate. You'll get different information than I will."

"And if people try to hit on me?" John asked giving him a slight smirk as he straightened his tie.

He lifted his eyebrows at John, trying to keep things relaxed, playful. "Remind them who you came with." He turned around, and walked over to John, carefully fixing the collar-stays in his shirt, smoothing the lapels in a lazy way. Damn if John didn't look good in a suit. He liked that he could see John's thigh muscles, just casually. It was a nice fit. "But you'll have to fight your own fights."

"Yeah, you'd just stand there and watch me do it," John said glancing up at him. "Anyone got trigger subjects I should avoid? I'd prefer to piss people off deliberately rather than accidentally."

"Oh, I'd say how much you love police, that my brother in law's a DI, anything to do with law enforcement in general." He leaned in close, taking a kiss because he could, just light, and grounding to them both. "These are pretty crass people, John. No delicate sensibilities to worry about. We're all there to take little pieces out of each other and cut deals."

"Well, I can deal with that," John answered. "Mm. You start that and we won't get anywhere."

"Hey, what kind of crime boss am I if I can't show off a gorgeous doctor hanging off of my arm." Still, John was right, and he needed to grab his gun. The buzzing of his phone in his pocket was enough. "Driver's here. Right. You have an extra clip?" He pulled away, reaching for his jacket from the back of the door.

"Yeah, never leave home without it," John said lightly. "Okay, let’s go. And we're looking for an A.V."

"A.V." 

He led the way, moving at a casual lope -- stopping long enough to holster his own gun, and grab a tie pin. Stupid thing, one of Jim's, but he liked the look of it, and it was stiletto sharp if things got really bad. When a man was thinking about having to kill someone with a tie pin, things were definitely really bad. He had his jacket buttoned by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, and waited just long enough for John to catch up before he stepped outside. 

Christ fucking a general, they'd set up what felt like five point surveillance while they waited for him. The driver was standing up with his door like a shield, and Frank opened the back door for them. He got in without waiting, expecting that John could get that the cue of the night was 'Follow'.

To his credit he did so -- as if that was a natural thing to do, when it wasn't what they normally did. John also stayed relatively quiet through the journey as if he was steeling himself, and getting back into a different mindset. A military mindset, from the way he was holding himself and from the way he was looking at his cane. That was good. Miserable, but good. It was like theatre, settling into a different space in his head, because he was different at home, alone, than he was at work and he was different with John. It wasn't a part he wanted John to play, honestly. The novelty of it was that John was an equal, willing to at least verbally knock him into line. 

He flipped through his phone, answering texts, taking a couple of calls, casual as he slid an arm over John's shoulders in open possession while he chatted in what felt like awful Pashto to a warlord he'd made friends with back in the day.

He could see John getting his head around what he was seeing now, adjusting to it. He didn't look overly happy but then, the whole week had been difficult. John's nightmares had kicked off again and he did seem convinced he was in danger of losing Seb as well. It was an irrational fear, but real enough. That was the thing about fears, they didn’t have to be rational.

Seb was fine with getting kneed in the gut in his sleep. He'd managed to get John to roll over, and curled up behind him because that seemed to be the best place to stay out of flailing limbs length without having to retreat to the other bedroom. The whole thing had just sucked, and rather than surrender to it, Seb had fought it. He was never getting Jim back and he couldn't do shit for John except be there and try to not be such an obsessively focused dick about things. Never mind that the whole charade felt like a step backward.

They'd deal with it all later. Or never.

He kept up with business until the vehicle rolled to a stop, with Frank getting out again and doing a perimeter check before opening the door to let John out first. 

He got out using his cane from the outset, and paused waiting for Seb. His expression was just hard enough to believe he could deal with the crowd they were heading into. The club itself was surprisingly up market for something below the legal radar. But then the people there all fancied themselves a cut above a common criminal.

He put a hand on John's back, low and comfortable, while Frank went ahead and held the doors open for them. It was already busy, but the reaction felt like it always did when he arrived -- like he was going to be holding court, when he didn't particularly want to do any such thing. There was an arrangement of chairs, sofas, low tables, all over the place, faux comfort in tense relations. Jim had loved to swan into the place and make people's hearts stutter in fear. Seb preferred to be slightly less ostentatious about it.

John's pace slowed them a little bit and he could see the interest there, but any concerns he had about John looking out of place were unfounded. John was sharp eyed and behaved impeccably, following him to where he wanted to set up his base of operations for the evening. He, on the other hand, was monitoring the area seeing who had turned out.

Everyone and their fucking brother.

Blakemore, Williams, two of the usual groups of Russians (led by Ivanov and the bald one he called Mikhail in his head), a triad representative, a couple of the Americans who'd decided London was ‘awesome’ and had no idea they were being bilked by Seb, the replacement general, Irene with Mannheim, what a lovely couple of criminals there were. No one whose name started with a V, not yet. Nothing that was ringing any bells. He settled on the sofa, John settling beside him to the left, Frank in a chair that Seb liked to think of as the screening chair on the right. The driver, Spencer, insinuated himself three feet back on the left, observant, casual. Seb made a casual gesture to one of the waitresses, three drinks, took his time lighting a cigarette. He was sure he'd have company before he did more than take a puff or two.

Sure enough, Blakemore was the first up, still as much of a cheap asshole as he seemed but no doubt rattled by the phone call before. If Seb cut off jobs, he could go under and he knew it. "Moran," he said in that weird faux gangster type way he had. "See you made it here. Resolved your situation then?" He glanced at John, briefly registering his presence and Frank was duly dismissed as being irrelevant. Spencer didn't even fall into the man's visual trace.

"No." He tilted his head up for a moment, and then sat back comfortably, inhaling slowly. He kept his voice steady, bored, disconnected, and it was absurdly easy to do -- because it did him no good if he was already angry that early in the meeting. It was best to let it simmer in case he needed it later. "No, I haven't, and you have no idea how much that's pissed me off."

Blakemore looked a little uncertain. "Like I told you, I didn't give him that job. He was on his usual for me, no deviation. I mean, Willie was a two bit smuggler, reliable, solid, good cover story for travelling back and forth. Wouldn't want to screw that up."

John was managing to look bored with him as well. It made Seb feel rather proud. “Yeah, you keep telling me that. You’ve said that a few times. Sounds almost practiced at this point.” He leaned forward a little, not caring that Blakemore was still standing up. The man edged back faintly in response, while Seb casually gestured with his cigarette. “Which makes me wonder what you’re not telling me, Robert.”

"What?" The man looked a little rattled. "What are you talking about? You're the one who called me out of the blue, hurling crap around about some deal. I don't know what you are talking about." 

He caught John making a wince as if Blackmore had made a painful error in saying that and it was almost fun to have someone who played off of him that well.

The waitress circled back, offering Frank his usual, and two gin and tonics. Seb picked his up with the same hand that held his cigarette. “Shhh, shhh, easy, Robert. I called you and asked if you’d killed him. That’s pretty direct. I don't muck about. Didn’t say anything about any *deals*. Did you make a *deal* with someone, Robert?”

"Uh," Robert looked like he'd been cornered and was sweating a little. "Look, I might have said to Dawkins we could try and take over one of the Eastern runs, but I swear it was just talk." 

He took a small sip of his drink, and tilted his head slightly to indicate vague interest. "Uh-huh. Which one of the Eastern runs were you talking to Dawkins about?" It wasn't at all what he was looking for -- he'd just caught the man out covering for something else he was up to. That was the problem with criminals, they always got antsy and started to try to expand their reach. It was ambition.

"Nothing major, there's one that runs all the way through Europe up through Tibet. He's got contact up there, and he thought with my connections we could open something up you know?" He was definitely worried about that.

"You get back to me with what he says, all right? Because your connections, well..." Weren't strictly his, and Seb added a smile as he took another sip of his drink, fitting the cigarette back into his mouth. "Anything else I can do for you, Robert?"

"No, no… I just thought, you know, I'd make sure that things were clear between us," he said and looked like he wished he hadn't bothered. "I'll let you know if I pick up anything."

"Things are clear between us," he assured, keeping his expression only a little smug. "And I'll let you know when I find out what happened to Willie. Wouldn't want a thing like that to start spreading around."

"Nah, we wouldn't." With his sense of relief some of his cockiness came back. "I've gotta speak to Bernie, See you around." 

Robert swaggered off. Seb saw John raising his eyebrows. "They all like that?" he murmured. 

“Almost every one of them.” He could see someone else coming towards them, but he still turned into John, pressing a languid kiss against the edge of John’s jaw while he slid an arm over his shoulders. Might as well confirm what half the room was thinking; it would guarantee that everyone would want to talk to John to see what bits of information they could pull out of Seb’s trusted confidante. “I swear to god, I think I might just shoot someone if every conversation goes like that,” he mumbled against John’s skin. He smelled good, faintly like the soap he was always scrubbing up with at the hospital, like it seeped into John’s pores.

"It's your own fault for that aloof mystique you’re cultivating," John said sounding amused and quirking a smile. Either he was a better actor than Seb had given him credit for or he was genuinely comfortable. 

It wasn’t something they’d discussed before setting out, and he’d just decided to go with it, regardless of consequences. Seb bit that spot gently, and then eased back from John to put his cigarette out in the ash tray. He could see one of the Americans, drug runners mostly, but they had an interest in the whole spectrum. “Sheppard, good to see you. Pull up a chair.”

"How's business?" Sheppard was a rare one in that he didn't touch what he trafficked, or so the rumors went. Bets were off though with relation to his partner. "Been hearing a bit of a buzz. Hope it's not going to screw with our deal."

“Our deal's solid." He fished another cigarette out of his pocket; at that rate, he probably just needed to start lighting them off of each other. He'd bum them off Frank if he ran out. "Though I'm curious what buzz you've heard that might put you in doubt."

Sheppard sipped his drink and looked at him. "People killing off your operatives?" Oh, and Sheppard had to be ex-military to be talking like that. "I'd say that was a fly in the ointment."

"Not for our deal." Seb shook his head slightly. Beside him, John had gone minutely more alert, but he kept his focus on Sheppard, only letting his eyes scan the area once to be sure things were still safe. "It's another concern, but you shouldn't be worried about it. Sometimes people over-extend their reach and thing the best way to cover their tracks is to kill. Dead men, unfortunately, tell plenty of tales."

"Yeah, I get that," Sheppard relaxed. "Meant to ask you last time, you know anyone smuggling Egyptian antiquities. I've got a...client with a fat wallet and an obsession."

"Does your client have a particular era in mind that he's looking for, or a taste for just Upper or Lower Egypt?" He lifted his eyebrows curiously at Sheppard, finishing off his own drink before setting the empty glass on the table. "I have different contacts for all three, and can save you time if you're looking for specific pieces."

"Hell, I didn't know it got that specific," Sheppard gave a laugh. "He told me to look out for those jars, and for particularly ancient hand jewelry, though if he could get his hands on some type of sarcophagus he wants he wouldn't say no to that either.”

"Canopic jars?" Seb rubbed at the edge of his jaw, and gave a laugh. "That's fucking bizarre, but right. Far be it from me to judge a client. I'll see what I can get my hands on, and get back to you on what it'll cost." After all, with all the uprisings in the Middle East, a lot of private collectors had been looted, robbed, or just sold the shit to get themselves on steady footing.

"I don't see the attraction myself," Sheppard replied. "But y'know, if they've got the cash, I'll take a look see. If it turns profitable it might be a better deal than running powder.

What a funny thing to say. Seb took a drag off of his cigarette, exhaling it just as slowly, sitting back shoulder to shoulder with John. He'd always been shit at sitting still; the longer he tried, the more his back twinged. "You know getting out of that business is harder than getting in. Your dealers won't be happy if you try to move."

"Oh yeah, I know but get caught smuggling antiques, hell of a lot less risky than drugs to good old Uncle Sam," Sheppard replied. "Don't know if it's reached you yet, but something's been cutting through the US networks like a goddamn knife in the last year or so. People are getting twitchy."

"No, I haven't seen any sign personally. Yet. Interpol, or...?" He threw that out, fishing to see what Sheppard might know. Hey, if the guy wanted to move over to smuggling antiquities, Seb wasn't going to protest. Decent enough for an American, and a contact he wanted to keep right where he could see him.

"Not Interpol, they know that much. Just watch yourself, whoever it is might not stop at the US," Sheppard said getting up. "Let me know if anything comes up."

"I will. I have pretty good comms, so..." He shrugged his shoulders, and nodded. That was all that needed to be said, and Sheppard was on his way. Two down, twenty more to go, and if he wanted the Russians to come over any time soon, John would have to make himself scarce.

It was a minor surprise when John leaned over to murmur in his ear as if indulging in an endearment. "I know him. He flew Medi-evac for a few of my team in Afghanistan. He's no runner.”

Seb didn't react, except to slide his arm low behind John's back, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. "Huh. I'll ask you about that later. Do you mind going for a wander? Ivanov and Garin won't talk to me if you're here." He cut his eyes over to them, watching him as if they were waiting a turn.

“No problem," John said with a smirk and pushed himself up ostensibly to go off to the bathroom, taking his cane with him.

Seb watched him go, followed him with his eyes until he disappeared around a corner. That wasn't a comfortable feeling at all, given the circumstances of the place, but John could fend for himself. Grown fucking adult and all that. He glanced over to the two, and it wasn't surprising when they started towards his spot.

It was going to be a long evening.

* * *

The weird thing about the situation was that John felt he should be less at ease with the prospect of plunging into a dangerous situation. Yes, he was a bit edgy with adrenalin but nowhere near what he probably should be. It was actually half way entertaining to watch Seb completely outclass everyone around him, although seeing Sheppard had been a surprise.

He was clearly there playing something, because there was no way the war had turned around so badly for the man that he'd become a drug runner. Then again, there were probably people who knew Seb during the war and would've been shocked at how he'd ended up. Still, it struck John personally as out of character, so he was going to trust his gut.

The problem with actually heading to the bathroom was that he was fairly sure, as soon as he opened the men's room door, that there was a couple having sex in the stall.

He headed out quickly enough and headed over to the bar, to give Seb some working room. He should have known that Irene would spot him the moment he was out of Seb shadow. That was fine by him; it gave him credence for her to recognize him.

It looked like he'd actually been part of the circle, such as it was, for a while. Irene walking up to him with such a perfectly formed smile on her face gave him credit. "John. You look... like Sebastian groomed you. That isn't one of Moriarty's suits, is it?"

"Thank you for that Irene," he said dryly. "No, it's not, although yes, he did pick it out." As if he was meant to care about that.

She reached out, and straightened John's shoulders slightly. "Good fit, one can't say he doesn't pay attention. How have you been?" Since she'd faked her death and he'd pleaded with her to tell Sherlock before Sherlock had gone any more withdrawn and heartbroken. Or what passed for it, for Sherlock composing melancholy music.

"Oh, I'm sure you already know," he said unable to keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. "As I am also sure you are enjoying seeing me here, because you recommended it."

“Well, that was a matter of convenience. I had no idea you'd decided to sleep with the enemy, so to speak. Still, I'm heartened that no one's bleeding yet." She turned to the barman, and smiled at him. "A martini. Make it interesting."

"You are looking remarkably well." She looked flawless as usual. It was that blank perfection that had driven Sherlock crazy. He could never resist a mystery and Irene Adler was complex book with the entries written in invisible ink. Irresistible to Sherlock, most men and a large number of women. He could see the attraction, but he knew that she would only be interested in him for a manipulative reason and that took the shine off.

It didn't make her any less heart-stoppingly beautiful, but he wasn't going to fall for it. "I know. Shall I introduce you to some of the other bits of arm candy in attendance?"

"If you don't mine, I would appreciate it," John replied acknowledging her helpful gesture. "How is business?"

"Exquisite, as always. I get such... pleasure out of my work." She was waiting for her drink, it seemed, and he was tempted to get another, just to have something to hold. But perhaps not. "Is there anything I could do for you in that department?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm surprised you haven't been texting Seb with suggestions," he said lightly. He did signal for a refill in the end. He decided he would look odd just standing around.

He could stand around with a drink in his hand instead, like everyone else was. Irene was all sly smiles at him. "No, I've tried that before. He was rather unreceptive at the time. Angry, in fact. How was I to know he has an irrational fear of the female form?"

"Fear?" John chuckled. "Lack of interest more likely. Sorry, but I don't think you do it for him, though he respects your... abilities." And probably would have enjoyed her preferred manner of sex a great deal if she had been a man. "Under other circumstances…"

"Mmm, with a penis." Irene sighed, and then thanked the bartender when he handed her a drink, and John his refill as well. "So the sex is good? I mean, if you're going to put up with that, tell me the sex is good, John."

John smiled. "Oh bloody hell yes," he said. "Though, sometimes I think I might be a bit tame for him." He did his best, and from the way Seb reveled in it, he did okay.

"No, I suspect you're quite fine. Anything is quite fine." She shook her head slightly, taking his arm to lead him away from the bar. "There's a reason I call Sebastian the Hollow Man, darling. You've filled an empty space in him -- ask him for anything, and he'll do it. He did horrible things for Moriarty. He'd do horrible things for you, John, if you but *asked*. Only, you don't, do you?"

He still didn't like that description but he looked at her, grabbing his drink just in time. "No, I don't. Moriarty took advantage of his being broken. That isn't who he is, not any more. He deserves better."

"He hasn't really changed, though. You'll leave him, eventually. And he'll fall in with something or someone else, and he'll do exactly what they want him to do. You're not *changing* him, there's nothing there to be changed. You're just the person currently filling his hollow spaces." She leaned in to whisper that last, her hair touching his as she smiled at a small gathering of women at a table. They were all done up quite nicely. "That's a beautiful amount of control to have over a person, for not a lot of effort. People in my line of work dream of that. Evangeline, hello, hello ladies."

She didn't know Seb like he did, she didn't see the flickers of his self, coming out every now and then, emboldened by the gentler handling. It was frustrating, but not something he wanted to continue arguing.

He smiled at the gathering, recognizing Irene playing at court in a similar way to Seb. He had to bite his tongue because he wanted to show her he wasn’t stupid, for all she dismissed him without a thought. He knew her, knew for all her poise and cleverness she was lonely for someone who could challenge her.

"Mistress Adler," one of the women, Evangeline answered with a lascivious drawl. "Surely your tastes have not changed so drastically?" She nodded at John.

"Sorry to disappoint… I don't belong to Irene. I'd no doubt be on a leash if I did."

"No, he came in with Colonel Moran," one beautiful red-head offered, accent tipping towards Scottish. "Which is just fascinating."

Irene shifted, uncurled her hand from John's arm to take a chair for herself. All perfect poise, leaving John to dart off to get his own chair to, apparently, join the group. "Yes, I'm afraid John here is currently embroiled with our kingpin. I expect it to be slightly less dramatic than James Moriarty."

"Wars in small countries were less dramatic than Moriarty," John answered as he sat. He balanced his cane comfortably against his leg.

"Embroiled… Oh, I've often wondered, is he as muscular as he looks?" The blonde, a bottle blonde by the looks of it, practically simpered at him, but John made it a point not to assume she was an idiot straight off. She was here and alive -- that pointed to some talent.

"Do you really want to know?" he said rhetorically.

The redhead laughed, and gave the blonde a shove at the shoulder. "Won't matter, Beth, not like you'd ever see. The man's gay. Gay gay gay. You just stick to circulating around between mobsters."

Evangeline gave a throaty chuckle. "Beth has an instinct for the power dynamics in our world. She always knows to hitch herself to the rising star."

"Doesn't help if he's gay though," Beth pouted. "Honestly Andy, there ought to be a law against it."

"Andy?" John queried looking at the red-head. Had to be short for something.

She waved her fingers in hello to John, acknowledging her name. "Mmhmm. And you're John? It's good to meet you. Welcome to the... criminal wives club. Wives, girlfriends, and now, apparently, boyfriends."

"Officially, I'm his doctor with benefits," John put in."Dr. John Watson and with permission to buy anyone drinks. Anyone need a refill?"

He laughed when they all put their hands up, even the ones who already had a drink. It broke him away from the conversation for a minute, to walk back to the bartender, place the order, tell him who'd be settling the bill, and he took every second it got him before he went back into the fray.

Gossip among the Criminal Significant Others club, as it was now dubbed by Irene, was a lot more salacious than what he had been overhearing with Seb. He very quickly found out far too much about certain people's sexual predilections, even as he tried to keep some secrets to himself. Irene he was pretty sure was actually attracted to Andy, the redhead, but was more likely to get somewhere with Evangeline.

Two more women joined their circle by the time the drinks arrived, and everyone seemed to be relaxing. "See. See, the ones who won't come over here. They're scared. They're the girls I worry about," Andy was saying, gesturing to a demure looking brunette who was sitting on the arm of a chair beside Blakemore. "They don't feel secure in their place."

"And you are?" John asked, slouching back and sipping his drink. "I mean, what do you guys actually do?" He knew exactly what Irene did, all too well but he wasn't sure if the others really were just eye candy.

"Oh, I have a day job. And my brother's Charlie Vickers. He has his own little piece of the pie. Like my parents did before us." Andy swirled her drink around. 

"Kids," one of the women, Jeannie, shrugged with a smile. "We've got two and one's not in school yet. Before that, I was a dental tech."

"Stock broker," Beth offered a little tartly. "And yeah, I turned tricks once upon a time but I wasn't gunna be some guy's strawberry for the rest of my life. I got it together."

Andy with a brother called Charlie Vickers. Andy Vickers...

John tried not to react to the realization that he had found an A. V prospect. "So none of you do your own deals then, except for... The Woman." He made it sound comical and light, a little tease at Irene to cover his enquiry.

"No, Andy dabbles," Evangeline offered slyly. "But quietly. She's not quite ready to accidentally run crossways of the big boys like your fellow, John. One of boys Beth used to date stabbed him, oh. Right after that Richard Brook nonsense. Rumor has it that he killed him with a car battery -- dumped the body right in the park over there, burnt to hell and clear as daylight for anyone to see. Get crossways of one of those fellows and end up dead real quick."

John glanced over to where Seb had been sitting; it was vacant. A few of the men were pushing tables together, and the new gathering on the far side of the room looked to be a card game. Seb was chatting with Sheppard again, animated while he smoked.

It wasn't like he didn't know that. Seb had said as much, confessed as much on many occasions. "Yeah, I know that. Seb has a tendency to think I'm... I don't know, somehow innocent of all of this. It just makes me think I should do something just to say, hey, I'm not that person. What sort of things have you done Andy?"

“Just arranged a couple of smuggling jobs. Nothing big. There’s a lot of unnecessary machismo,” she said with a gesture towards the card game that was starting. If John concentrated, he could hear Seb’s laugh, low, easy, not quite the same laugh he made back at the flat. There was some minor argument over who could be trusted to deal. 

Irene gave a quiet hum of agreement, still beside John. “It’s the private lives behind that machismo that fascinate me. What lurks behind the bravado? Scared little boys, most of them. Most men are.” She put a hand on John’s arm. “Present company excepted.”

"Thanks for that," John said dryly. She really didn't want to know what he could be sometimes. Seb killed people, he knew that, but he tended not to think he was "right" to do so. John knew he did right, like a burning dangerous righteousness that he knew could be a hundred times worse if it took over than just killing. He'd seen it in action day in and day out in Afghanistan. "So, not being funny, but why would someone go to you rather than say, your brother or that bloke.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture. "Blakemore? Blakemore. He does smuggling doesn't he? And that Sheppard guy from the States." 

"Better rates, less..." Andy looked like she was weighing her answer now. "Baggage? You never know who's tied up and who owes who. Who *owns* who. I mean, we all have suspicions, and everyone works with people that they've never even met. You meet the third person removed from the head, usually."

"No one ..." Evangeline hesitated, looking over towards the card game. "It's one of those things. We all dealt with the Colonel for so long. The first time Moriarty, or. Well, whoever he was, came here, we thought he was some..." She waved her hand slightly, because the words she no doubt wanted to say weren't anything she wanted to say in front of John. Fantastic. "Well. It took a few hours to realize who answered to whom. Now that he's gone, it's the first time in a long time that we all know who the power there actually is." But she was giving John a speculative look now, maybe wondering if he was the new power behind the throne and Seb was still a front man. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

Irene smirked.

"Well, I don't think being a doctor is going to put me much in the frame," he said affably. "I'm not sure how regular a thing this is going to be for me."

Seb might forbid him to ever come again, which would be quite amusing. 

"You are far too modest," Irene said, smiling. "I am sure things could have been much more volatile without your influence on the Colonel, John."

It was all a game to her. Life was a game to her. "Things still go wrong," he said. "You've probably noticed that.”

"Oh, how could I not notice?" She inclined her head slightly, and smiled as she finished off her drink. "Still, we all appreciate that things have gotten... Quieter."

Andy laughed, ducking her head faintly. "It's sort of nice, isn't it? Still. Baggage. That's the benefit you get from smaller operators."

"Well, I'm going to go for a wander," Evangeline offered, standing up with a stretch.

John smiled and leant back, looking at Irene a moment. She seemed to be waiting for him to do or say something, and he wasn't sure if putting the pressure on Andy himself was useful, or whether he should get Seb involved. 

"You know Andy, speaking of things that went wrong... You wouldn't have given a job to Willie Jenkins would you?" he asked mildly.

It was almost worth it to watch her facial expression twitch, tightening around the eyes, and she was quiet, tense. "Uh... I, uh. Have given him a job or two, yes. It's a shame what happened to him."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" he said. "Seb's pretty upset about it. Went to visit his widow, promised her that he'd sort it out, find out who did it, that sort of thing..." He let the implication of that dangle a little. "I could pass on that information for you if you like." He gave her an out.

She looked oddly fear struck suddenly, glancing over towards the card game. "I, uh. Maybe I should uh..." Her mouth went tight, and she leaned back in her chair. "But he's busy right now."

All John had to do was a send a text.

"Then tell me, and you can be out of here before I tell him," he said. He smiled, all the caring doctor persona he used at work. "Don't worry, I protect my sources."

"Doesn't matter if you protect your sources or not," Andy offered, voice pitching upwards slightly. "He'd be bound to figure it out. I…" She had a funny twist to her face, like someone contemplating jumping into a fire.

"Then maybe you should go to him, make it look like you're taking the initiative. I can get him to come over if you want," he said soothingly. He didn't want to completely spook her. "He's not after you Andy, he wants the people behind this. "

She was shutting down already, though. Seb would have to pry it out of her, so perhaps it was best to hand her over. "Sure. If you could, then..."

He zapped off a text, and smiled. "It'll be okay," he promised. He glanced over to Seb to see if he had it.

There was a momentary delay -- Beth started to talk to Irene, but he watched Seb fish his phone out of his pocket, turn to Frank to say something, passing off his hand of cards. No drinks in his hands, but he was smoking another cigarette, posture casual. 

"C'mon," he said to Andy. "He's taking a break. Let's go." He wasn't going to make her go on her own, that much was for sure -- in case Seb felt he had to make some sort of example. He didn't pretend to understand how that side of things worked.

He never knew what triggered that reaction in Seb. Still, when Andy stood up, he went with her to meet him. The casualness looked all faked, now that he was closer -- Seb looked more tightly strung around the eyes than he had in weeks. "Andy. Hello, John said you had something to tell me?" He made it a question, gave her an out.

"Yeah, uh..." She looked at John a moment. "We were talking and John mentioned that you were trying to find what happened to Willie Jenkins? I don't know if it helps, but I asked Willie to do a job, it may have been his last one. He was smuggling someone in on his Eastern European run. Seemed like a standard dodge the border deal... I was horrified to hear what happened."

John had to admit, she sounded sincere.

Agitated tension flickered faintly towards anger. "Who contacted you to arrange the job?" Seb asked flatly.

"That Lithuanian guy, Karolis. I know he sometimes fronts for the big guys but he said this was a personal favor. Cousin who wanted to get into the UK." Andy shifted unconsciously towards John, and he glanced to watch Seb’s reaction. "It seemed legit. I knew Willie regularly did that run, so I hooked them up, took my cut and thought it was a clean deal."

"Karolis. You got his current number?" He lowered his cigarette, leaning slightly in towards her. "And if you give me a dummy number, I'll burn you and your brother."

"C'mon, she didn't have to tell you Seb," John said mildly. "It was just the sort of deal people make every day around here."

"And the moment it impacts *my* operations and plans, there's a fucking problem," Seb snapped, still focused entirely on Andy. "The number or do you want to make this a game of twenty questions?"

"Here," Andy said. She fumbled in her purse for a moment before scribbling a number down that she pulled off of her phone. "Take it. If I'd know it would interfere, I would never have taken it... but someone else who might not have fronted up and told you the deal could have done."

She passed over the paper, and John raised his eyebrows at Seb slightly.

"And I appreciate your honesty, Andy." His jaw clenched visibly, but the words sounded no less sincere. "You need to be careful. No one ever really asks you for a family favor. Real family, you don't trust to anyone else's hands. Would you trust some new half known contact to get your brother out of England?"

She looked uncomfortable. "The… price was really good, I guess I should have been suspicious of that. I just figured he was in the sort of trouble that made him willing to pay a premium. I won't make that mistake again."

"Atta girl." Seb put a hand on her shoulder, an easy gesture. "Keep that in mind. And if you want to get into it with more smuggling, maybe you should do a little more eavesdropping about the business, and less about." He gestured towards where the cluster of women were, while holding onto the scrap she'd handed him. "We've all fucked up sometime or another. Now go on, enjoy your night."

She nodded, and looked relieved. "I'll be back over in a minute," John said. "Get me another drink and for the others as well and I'll be there." He just wanted to check things with Seb. He got the impression that the Criminal Significant Others society was underutilized.

Now there was an opportunity to use it -- because Seb had never had an in before. As it was, he was pulling the smoked down filter down from his lips, before turning in closer to John. "My head is fucking killing me."

"It's the chain-smoking nicotine," John murmured, leaning close. "You're not used to it any more. And stress."

"Probably." Seb slid his hands down to John's waist, head ducked down a moment for that closeness he seemed to gravitate to. It was very comfortable, very easy, like being at home. John relaxed into it as much as Seb did, because it was no-stress contact in a way he hadn’t had reliably in years. "I should get back to the game."

"Thank you," John murmured. It just took a moment, curving fingers along beneath Seb’s shoulder through his suit. He felt Seb exhale, taking a breath to steel himself before he straightened up, war face on again. "Later tonight. We can work on that headache." He kissed him a little and then headed back to socialize again, and make sure ruffled feathers were soothed.

* * *

Come the morning, Seb was just mostly glad that he wasn't hung over. Not in any noticeable way. John'd made him take two aspirin, and a glass of water, which was common sense that Seb usually couldn't be arsed to bother with. It had felt good to sleep in, to laze in bed with his face plastered to John’s shoulder until the world resolved itself into something coherent, and to take his time getting up on a Saturday. He sort of overcooked hotcakes for John and himself, with cooked down blueberries, but it tasted good and Mrs. Hudson only came up the once to make sure he wasn't burning the place down. She stayed for breakfast, which was all right.

Everything was just oddly okay, even the fact that he was driving towards fucking Scotland Yard.

John was half resting his head against the window, as if he hadn't flat out insisted he was following him to see Lestrade. He yawned. "So after we tell Lestrade, then what?"

"I call Karolis, see what I can get out of him. If I get a contact out of him, I'll probably have to travel to find that group. I suspect it'll be out of my reach." And Karolis was best called when the man was *awake*, so he could wait a few more hours. No point in calling when he wasn't going to answer and the chances of getting screened were higher.

"He likely to talk to you?" John queried and shifted a little in his seat. "For someone with a headache it didn't seem to inhibit you any."

“When?" He glanced sideways at John, but kept both hands on the steering wheel. "Last night?"

"Yeah." He smiled a little. "It was just as well I was over the other side of the room when you were being the hard-ass colonel."

He snorted, scanning for a good place to park that was far enough away to keep off the cameras, but close enough to not drive John's leg to pain. "It's like putting on another skin. You were right, I think I smoked myself out last night."

"You were getting pretty close to Sheppard," John commented. "If he's a real drug runner, I'll eat my stethoscope."

"I think he's US Government," Seb offered. He'd talked with him on and off through the night, because he was sharp and amusing and he got tired of casually biting people's legs off with his words. "It's a little strange, just a few things he said. I'd find it stranger if I didn't work for Mycroft, I suppose. The antiquities sound like something they're trying to reclaim."

"Yeah, a guy who breaks orders to go after one of his men, and gets shot down in the process and captured, yeah. Not the drug runner type," he said. "He was a good guy, and a hell of a pilot.”

"I'll remember that if I ever need to steal a plane." He licked his bottom lip. "I appreciated your help last night. And not complaining about burnt hotcakes, even if you're not awake yet."

John grinned at him. "I didn't embarrass you then? And the charcoal helped to settle my stomach. Irene could out-drink a fish."

"I can embarrass myself just fine." He pulled into a parking space, taking a moment to straight it out. It was a little weird to be heading in there dressed as a normal bloke, but after a long night's performance he just couldn't be arsed. And John was never arsed. It was a horrible habit to have rubbed off. The next thing he knew, he’d be trading in scruffy button-downs for jumpers. "It was really nice to have you there. Once I stopped twitching every time you went out of line of sight."

"You know, the girls gossip. No wonder Irene seems to know everything," John said. "I was fine, they are all in awe of you... and appreciating the new stability."

That was probably very true. "Jim would've... I was always wound up, even if he wasn't there, and he usually wasn't." Instead, he came home to the flat afterwards, slept, waited for John to get off shift, read a book, and wrote something up. It was just a different life.

He turned the engine off. 

"You're a linchpin rather than a king pin," John said. "Best way to be, they get rid of you, everything collapses. Best protection there is."

"It's not fool proof, but it'll do." He got out, waiting for John to do the same before he locked the car. "Don't let me smoke today. I'm trying to see how far I get before withdrawal hits."

"Distraction may be needed then," John replied, getting out smoothly. "Time to face my public."

He fell into pace beside John, because it was hard to not feel protective. Those people were assholes, and if any of them gave John problems, well. He was just waiting for an opportunity. "Such as it is."

"Well," John shrugged. "No killing people if they don't play nice, Seb. To them, Sherlock played them. Although if they thought about it for more than a minute they'd realize how ridiculous that really was."

"Still. What the hell am I to them? What the hell are you? The guy who got had?" Sebastian shrugged his shoulders and pulled the door open, holding it for John.

"Not sure," John said. "But nothing I can do about it is there?" He went on in doggedly, with a gritted determination.

There had to be a joke in there somewhere. A crime lord and a dupe walk into New Scotland yard and... set a couple of desks on fire. Seb wasn't sure, as he set his wallet, watch and wrist cuff into a plastic bin and watched John have to put his cane in the same pass-through area so they could get through the metal detector without beeping off.

Then they set off upstairs, heading for the lift and John keeping himself fairly non-descript in the background. "You told him we're coming?"

"And unfortunately, he's in," Seb told him. He stood close enough to John to bump shoulders with him, just faintly. "So, I'm of a mind to get this over with."

It did fall silent the moment they entered the department proper, but John just moved on through, straight to Lestrade’s office. A year and not one of them seemed to give a shit. No one cared but John and Seb. No one even batted an eye. He fell back, loping along behind John because he seemed quite so determined, opening Lestrade's door without knocking.

"Morning Greg," he said cheerfully, as if they chatted all the time. "How are things?"

"How're -- oh, Jesus." He startled, swinging his legs down from his desk. Seb closed the door behind him. "John!"

"I should've brought a camera." Seb stuck his hands into his pockets, standing there against the door.

"That's okay, I've got pictures of Greg looking stunned already," John said. "Mind if I sit down? The leg gets tetchy at the moment." Something Lestrade should have known about, if he were a real friend. John was good at passive aggressively sliding a knife in.

"No, no, sit down. Sit down." He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. He looked awkwardly at Seb, and gestured to him, too. "You, too."

"We came up with a good lead last night," Seb offered, "But no hurry. I think you have some catching up to do."

"Do we?" John said in that mild way he had of slipping something sharp in his words. "Mind you, I suppose you mentioned that I should be included to Seb. Thanks for that."

"Well. You always brought a particular... viewpoint." He sat down again, and picked up a pen. "There wasn't anything we could do, after the chief got involved."

"You're not a Detective Inspector when you're off duty, Greg," John replied. "But fine, I understand. Politically it was difficult for you. Have you had a change of heart?"

"We actually, uh." He shook his head slightly, and looked distinctly uncomfortable. "It's starting to sort of become ‘officially’ obvious that Sherlock didn't plan everything. Little bits and pieces of evidence, and uh. Audio recording, actually. We're still working through it."

John shook his head. "Seriously Greg, one tailored scenario and all the other times of completely unrelated cases meant nothing? You called him most of the time. It's not like Seb couldn't confirm it was a frame up, if you asked him."

He watched Lestrade fix him with a hard look, and Seb closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over them. Jesus fucking Christ, it’d been going so well. "John. John, can we not *say that out loud* in front of the fucking police?"

"I thought you were one of Mycroft's men, but just how deep into the whole slick mob thing are you?" Lestrade started to stand up from his chair. 

"He is one of Mycroft's," John said looking a little repentant. "You should know by now that Mycroft has people everywhere. Relax, would I be with him otherwise?"

Seb rolled his eyes, and slouched in the chair, trying to look as non-threatening quite then as he could manage. “Is this a conversation I actually have to be present for? ‘Cause I can go sit in the hallway and drink office coffee…”

“Yeah, not on your life.” Lestrade made a vague gesture. “You know. I’ve heard of your name before, and I just, it finally hit me. Sherlock thought you were the tube sniper way back. Jesus. Mycroft vouches for you, fine. Fine. What did you two come up with?”

"We're chasing down a chain of people to the source," John said. "Seb managed to get some information out of Willie Jenkins' widow in the end, and then we looked at a couple of sources and located the person who gave the job to Willie. The job was to smuggle a person into the UK."

"A person that no one has seen, can give a description on, or knew where they were headed. So there's your Pawn takes Knight... into the country. We've also got a hold of our texter, who heard about what was going on from a backbencher. So, if not the queen, then something in the government. There are a few more leads to run down, actually. I could call one now if you're all willing to make no background noise," he offered.

"By all means," Lestrade said and John nodded as well. Karolis should be up by now or at least not in the thick of it all and he wasn’t sure if he would be the end of the line or not. But he should answer to him at least.

Seb fished his phone out of his back pocket, flipping through his contacts to the new good number Andy had given him for Karolis. The man swapped phones like no one he'd ever seen and it never seemed to do any good for covering his tracks, so what the heck. He sat up straighter, dialing through. Two rings, and he heard someone say 'Hello' in beautiful broken English. 

And speaking Russian to the man would get him nowhere but hung up on. "Karolis, hello. It's Sebastian Moran. Do you have a minute?"

"Colonel, yes?" the man replied. "Yes I have time to speak with you for business. What is it that you are needing?" The words were deliberate and placed with thought into the conversation.

“I'm looking for the name of that cousin of yours that Andy Vickers helped smuggle in." He'd see how far the man wanted to take it. Across the desk from him, Lestrade was pulling an incredulous face, so Seb closed his eyes, waiting for a response.

There was a moment of silence. "Cousin? Ah..." He could almost imagine the other man squirming. "He is… *distant* family. Not seen him since very small. Very small. He's been out of country for many years. I am asked favor. I am also paid well."

"Aren't we all, Karolis?" He bit his tongue for a moment, just a tiny touch of pain before he went on. He was impulsive on a good day, worse when he was relaxed sometimes, and this was about the dance of not too much information. "So, what would it take to find out who asked you the favor, or what he might look like now that he's not very small?"

"Difficult to betray a family trust," Karolis replied. "But, I am in need of money yes? Ten thousand sterling for name, picture and what I know. It is risk yes, big risk for me."

"I won't burn you on this. Hate to lose someone who knows I'm good for my word. I can have it to you in two hours. You know how to get it to me, right?" He started to stand up, because he needed to call his money launderers and he didn't want to do that with the DI watching. Neither was leaving the room an option, but he was always restless when things started to roll along.

"Yes, yes," Karolis said. "For others would not sell, but you may be able protect yourself." Now with the promise of money he became much less suspicious.

It was funny how that worked. "I'll be looking for it tomorrow. Pleasure doing business with you, Karolis." He'd let the other man get the last word in, then hang up and call his guys. 

"Information sent when half money in account. Rest on delivery," Karolis said. "Pleasure doing business with you.

"Always." He hung up, flicking through his address book absently, pacing behind John's chair. "So, that's 10k sterling I've got to move." 

“And you can just do that?" Lestrade asked. "No, never mind... I don't want to know. He's going to tell you who set this up? Just like that."

"Seb does have a reputation," John said.

He cocked an eyebrow slightly, deciding between which of two launderers needed the work. "If he cheats me, he knows I'll... Well, never mind what I'd do." Fly to the continent, drive up to his house, chain all the doors shut and set it on fire with everyone inside. "Yeah, I'll have to go back outside. Give me fifteen?" He didn't want to give account numbers with the man around. 

"Fifteen it is," Lestrade said. "John, why don't we go in the situation room? You can see if any of our information matches up."

John glanced at Seb and then nodded. "See you in a minute Seb." He gave John a faint wave, and let himself out of the office. It was tedious, but like so many things in life, necessary. He'd established with the DI that they weren't dicking with him.

* * *

The situation room was somewhere he had last been with Sherlock, and the rush of recollection was almost painful. He would have thought his memory of the man would be dimming, but no. It was as clear and sharp as if Sherlock had just walked out of a room ahead of him. It was disorientating, and John was more rattled by being here than he was letting on. Outing Seb as a criminal mastermind was definitely not part of the game plan and he’d just blurted it out because he was shaken by just being in the building.

Seb seemed willing to roll with it. Maybe. It was hard to tell, because he'd never actually provoked Seb in the last year. "So. What the..." Greg made a few questioning noises.

"What?" John looked at him. "You're going to have to be more specific with your question Greg."

His expression looked tight for a moment. "I'm sorry. After he jumped, I didn't think you'd -- I mean, we arrested you. I wouldn't want to see me." After he jumped.

"Try going through that with no one sometime and then think about whether you'd want no one to come around," John replied, tasting the bitterness in his own response. "I thought you'd figure it through quicker... You saw him, you knew what he could do. I thought you might pick it up later." He shrugged a little. "I was wrong."

"There's. An audio recording that made its way into our hands." Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "Someone taped them. But, you're not here for that. I don't know what to do, honest. We have audio analysts working on it. No one's got a confirmed record of Richard Brooks', or Moriarty's voice. He never said a word in court." 

“I know," John replied half sitting on the table. "You should ask Molly. When he was being Jim the IT guy and her boyfriend...” He winced. "Uh, you did get an expert to double check St. Barts afterwards right?"

"Hmm? An expert? Look, until we heard that, he was a voluntary jumper."

John made a mental note to ask Seb to double check Jim Moriarty hadn't been too bored playing around with the IT in the hospital. "He wasn't. He wouldn't go like that. Not from choice." And he still wasn't sure Sherlock had gone but as time went on doubt eroded a little more.

He was mostly resigned to the fact that Sherlock was dead. "We know that now." Lestrade rubbed at the back of his neck. "Look, do you want to hear? I can't let it go, but..."

Did he? He did and he didn't. He nodded his head briefly. "Yeah...I guess. Yeah."

"Right. I'll just keep, uh... Your boyfriend? Out." He walked John over towards the main computer. "Just let me pull it up."

He nodded and sat in front of the computer. "Thanks," he said almost absently and then put an ear phone in. It took a moment to start after Lestrade hit play. The sheer visceral gut punch of hearing Sherlock's voice again was by far and away more shocking than he would have believed possible. He felt his throat tighten involuntarily as they exchanged insults, almost incomprehensible flashing insults backwards and forwards.

Moriarty's voice pitching high and low, angry and sad as he called Sherlock stupid, so stupid, that he disappointed him. That he might as well jump, because he was ruined. Then that he was ruined and there were snipers on his friends. Three bullets, three friends.

He knew then, he knew the way it was unraveling, no different to the way he's been used before to force Sherlock's hand. Gun to the head, explosive jacket, now sniper... Seb, with his crosshairs, apologizing now for it but in that moment with those words, the cross hairs were on him, on Lestrade, on Mrs. Hudson and...

He hadn't really realized it. Hadn't let himself feel that moment, but now it was crashing in on him. The sound of Sherlock's voice when he grasped at hope, suddenly bright with it as he promised Moriarty that he would do anything. That he was on the side of angels but not one of them. He heard mumbled bless-you's in the other man's voice, a promise of redemption. The gunshot startled John, a sharp noise that caused funny reverb. And the recording stopped. But John knew what came next, guessed that he'd still had crosshairs at his back while they waited for Sherlock to jump. 

It felt raw, and real again. His voice...his voice was there in his head, knowing he was cornered but thinking trying to save a life. His life and he was back at that point where it was his fault. But not a suspicion, confirmed now by this recording that Sherlock had chosen to die rather than let him be shot. Seb had said something a long time ago and it had felt like words, but this made it real again.

Seb rambled and ranted and raved when he got out of sorts, and John hadn't had the context. Now he had it all, on audio. It was over but it didn't stop playing in his head, because he remembered staggering forward, rushing because it couldn't have been real and then that guy on the bike hadn't, he'd gotten in the way. It wouldn't have mattered.

He closed his eyes, and took the headphones off. 

It hurt. It was all ripped open again, but he had to hold it all together and resist the urge to say _fuckfuckfuck_ repeatedly. He couldn't listen to it again, he really couldn't. In an attempt to get his mind off of it, he dwelled, frowning. Where the hell had it come from? And how did it get to Lestrade? Had Seb recorded it?

And if he had, he'd been sitting on it? He'd kept it from John but passed it to the police? That didn't sound right to John. He didn't know, so he just sat there, trying to not really look at anything, or think, or. Or let himself feel because that wasn't why they'd gone to the yard. He hadn't gone there to hear Sherlock's voice in his head again, to feel that ache in his heart because he'd known the moment Mrs. Hudson had been perfectly okay, and not shot at all that there'd been a setup. He'd known the moment he'd seen Sherlock on the ledge what was coming next. And he'd made, he'd made John stand there and watch like some stupid useless testament and try and force him to participate in perjury.

He'd made a phone call, left a note because that was what people did, even if it was all a horrible lie.

"John?" Fingers touched light on his shoulder, Seb's voice pitched quiet, soft.

He did nearly startle. "Shit. I didn't hear you come in. Sorry..." He had to snap back to business, put that to one side.

It didn't work, though, because it felt like he'd swallowed a rock. "It's okay. I've got the money moved, and we should hear something soon." Seb's fingers stayed on his shoulder, and he was watching John while John tried to focus himself. Just pull it back together. Pretend the old wound hadn't ripped right open.

"So, uh. We don't have any more information on our side to give you," Lestrade volunteered. When had he come back in? "Same as we had last time."

"Nothing at all?" John asked. "No leads on the possible target?" Queen's 4 had to mean something. Was it the target or was it the perpetrators?

"Thin air," Lestrade shrugged. "I've asked around, but if it means anything to the govvies, they're tight lipped on it. No one will tell me anything." 

"Is it tight lipped, or just shrugging? Not everyone is hiding something." Seb's fingers slid back a little, rubbing faintly at John's shoulder.

"Might as well be a goddam brick wall for all the cooperation I'm getting," Lestrade groused. "So, I hate to say it but without your lead we’ve got nothing. No one is talking to the official channels."

"We'll have a face for you tomorrow. And I'll probably have to go abroad to keep digging, because my easy reach ends right about with that phone call." The faint rub felt good, and Seb was careful in a not paying attention sort of way when he crossed over where John's old through and through injury was. Stitched together muscle never healed flat nor pretty. "So, is there anything else?"

"That's good news. I appreciate you coming in," Lestrade said and John pushed himself up stiffly. 

"We'll keep you updated," John said and exhaled. "And Greg... Come round some time."

"Yeah, I will." He still looked unsure, and John didn't know why *he* looked unsure. Seb stepped back, getting out of the way while John stood, waiting by the door. He didn't like Greg, but he wouldn't uninvite him if John asked. "Take care of yourself, John."

He reached out and shook his hand, not above making a visible gesture of reconciliation so everyone could see. "Yeah, and you Greg. See you soon." 

"Right." He was almost smiling as John left, Seb shadowing behind him. 

Seb was quiet while they waited for the lift to come up, and John was all right with that. He needed time to think, he needed to process. Needed to stop reacting because it was all right there, it was all fresh again. Had been all week, if he was honest. Had been when he'd stopped outside of St. Bart's and looked up.

He'd tried to not let a date have power over him. Tried to not let a place, otherwise he would have been at some other hospital covering shifts. All those good intentions blown to crap. Sherlock’s voice, he'd forgotten the pitch of his voice just slightly. Memory had blurred that a little and to hear him again...

“Where are we going now?" he asked following Seb absently.

“Don’t know.” Steadily out of New Scotland Yard, that was obvious. Seb kept his voice quiet, under-animated, while he walked in step with John. Almost sad. “Depends on you. Anywhere you want to go? It’s a waiting game now, and it’s Saturday.”

He wasn't sure what he wanted to do, torn between the urge to blot the memories from his head and cling to them. He glanced at Seb a moment and maybe he had given something away or...something. He needed to pull himself together because wallowing wasn't fair. Irene was right to a certain extent, Seb would do anything for him, he knew that, but the difference laid in the fact in that he didn't and wouldn't ask him to do that. "Don't mind," he said. "We got anything in the house? We could do some shopping." It was mindless and domestic and he was an observer enough to know that Seb actually strangely relished things like that.

"Yeah, we could. Do dinner up in tonight." He fished a cigarette out of his pocket, but just held onto it, didn't light it. "I'm sorry I got into it with Lestrade back there."

John blinked a moment. He hadn't heard anything. "You did? Can't have been that bad, I didn't notice it." He was sure he would have been disturbed if it had been.

"No, it was bad," Seb offered. "Did you know his voice goes scrapy and pitchy when he screams?"

"What were you arguing about?" John asked trying to get his head around the fact that he had missed an apparent screaming match.

"What the hell he was thinking when he sat you down with that audio file." Seb was fidgeting with the cigarette, stopping walking when John stopped. "And you were just. Gone, John."

"I... it was a shock okay? Not the content, but... hearing it." John admitted. He wasn't going to lie about it, it had hit him hard, harder than he would have believed. "I'm okay. I'm...okay now."

"Okay." Seb was still watching him, though. "I just. Want to be sure. If you say you're okay, I believe you. Groceries, right?"

"Yeah. I could do a spicy Moroccan lamb if you want," John suggested. He was going to make that statement the truth if it killed him. "We could make enough for Mrs. Hudson, lord know we've lived off of her food often enough."

Seb nodded, and started walking towards the car again, fishing out his keys. He looped an arm around John's waist briefly. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," John apologized again. "Uh, you and Lestrade -- you didn't hit him did you?" that would be a nightmare to sort out.

"No." Seb's fingers stretched, clutched at his side. "I behaved, mostly. Ish. I didn't say anything I didn't mean." There was a wide range of things that Seb would say and mean.

"I am...not particularly reassured by that," John said, moving in closer. Seb needed reassurance, and he could provide it.

The cigarette ended up tucked behind Seb's ear, while they stopped beside the car. "I posed a hypothetical, and he over-reacted. Which I think proved what I was saying. Then you kept not... Reacting." 

"Sorry," John said again. "I'm assuming it was about me, from the way you're not telling me what it was about.”

"I sort of suggested that if someone killed his wife and filmed it, would he appreciate if the local police offered him a viewing." Seb pulled away a little, to unlock the car. "He took it as a threat."

"After me just letting it slip about who you were, he probably was a bit jumpy," John pointed out. "People do tend to assume the worst."

"Maybe they should." He pulled the door open for John, and then moved around to the driver's side. No, he certainly didn't believe John was all right. He never opened the door for him.

He was just going to have to work hard at proving that it was just a setback, just a knock that brought it back for a moment. A protective Seb, though nice in one way, could be dangerous to those around him and he had to be aware of that.

* * *

The week felt like it was sort of re-setting a little. Cooking therapy with John was amusing, and then he'd had some reports to catch up on while he'd eyed John and tried to lay out the case, such as it was. Harry had called that night, and gotten hung up on. The next morning, Seb had gotten up early, gone for a run.

It was always better to feel exhausted when he had a therapist's appointment. The Sunday morning appointment was sort of his fault, because he'd had to cancel the Friday, so there went the usual going in scary routine. Maybe it was better not to. He wasn't sure.

It still made the waiting room sitting suck.

"Seb?" Ella came out smiling pleasantly. "Come on in. I have to say, I missed having you in on Friday.” She gestured for him to take a seat, once they were in her office.

"There was a work thing I needed to see to instead. I had the time, I just... My head wasn't right." He managed to make one appointment a week, roughly, give or take falling off the radar for travel. "It was a bad week."

"I'm glad you feel able to volunteer that," Ella said as she settled into her seat. "How has it been a bad week for you Seb?"

How to find the words? He sat back in the chair, which he noticed was always a really safe distance for her. The more distance she had on the various vets who came into the office, probably the better. "Year ago Tuesday, Jim killed himself. Same day, I have a job with this, these cops John used to work with."

"Brought up difficult memories for you," she half stated, half asked. "How did that make you feel?"

"Angry." He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his jaw. "And John's... I don't know what to do. I'm used to being a living train wreck. It's okay. I don't know what to do for John."

"Tell me what happened?" she asked. "Why do you think there is something specific you can do for John?”

"Tuesday wasn't very good. I'd planned a, uh. Thing out, dinner, stuff. The work with the police trumped everything, so we stayed in the flat and sort of worked and fell apart. Downhill from there. Saturday the police, there's uh. A recording, from when Sherlock jumped. He, uh..." Seb closed his eyes, because he could hear that one way wire with deafening clarity, all of Jim's vocal contortions. It was the whispers that had scared him most. Soft, soft, gloating, gone. "Listened to the recording, and just sort of went shell shocked. Quiet, didn't react. I started in on the DI, and just. I finally got him to respond, and we did the shopping and went home. But there was nothing, he scared the shit out of me. I should be able to *do* something."

"It is very difficult to be in that situation," Ella acknowledged. "Why did you feel scared about it, Seb? What part of the experience caused you fear?"

He shifted in the chair, crossing his legs loosely at the ankles. He it was hard to really pin down what part scared him most. "John's stable, compared to me. And when he checks out, I don't know what to do for him. There doesn't seem to be anything but to wait."

"Other people can have difficulties Seb, even those who seem stable. Is it the loss of the stability that caused you fear or something else?" 

He rubbed at the edge of one eyebrow, caught himself and tried to focus on keeping his hands still. It wasn't something he could really answer right off, not the way his chest twisted. "I, uh. I lost Jim last year, because there wasn't anything I could do. I thought... I'm afraid I'm going to miss something again and John'll just say oh, fuck it, and give up."

"Has he given you any indication that he might do that?" she asked gently, as if he knew this was difficult for him.

"No. But I'm shit at talking about things, and it's palpable how much he's hurting." Friday had been all right -- better than all right for John, while Seb had struggled and coped and kept it above water. Saturday... he was still tempted to slash DI Lestrade's tires.

"Have you discussed it at all?" she asked. "What do you feel are your motivations in wanting to do something?"

"I, uh." He exhaled, hands twitching again. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"I want you to examine your feelings surrounding this situation. Why do you feel so strongly about this episode of John's... What is it about it that makes you want to act?" Ella said patiently

Fuck, he hated that. He hated that whatever it was seemed perfectly obvious to her in her assumptions and it was a great yawning chasm for him. He ran a hand over his face, and didn't answer, running different things through his mind. Because, because why? Because John mattered to him. By why did it matter that John mattered to him? What was the point? There wasn't a point, and it had never mattered before. "I love him, and I want him to be okay."

She smiled at him. "Was that so hard to admit Seb?" she said mildly. "That you can and are willing to love someone. Have you loved someone like this before?"

"Jim." He ran a hair back through his hair. "Not that it mattered; it didn't. Still doesn't."

"What do you mean that it doesn't matter?" she queried watching him carefully.

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Because it's me, John, and the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. If he rose from the dead and showed up tomorrow, I think I... I'd almost be relieved. It's what John wants."

"And what do you think would happen in that situation Seb?" What indeed. It was not an easy thing to consider. On the one hand he was sure that John cared for him. 

But even caring had priorities. He laughed, rubbing at the side of his jaw again. "I, uh. Guess I'd go sleep on my sister's couch for a few weeks until I got my shit together again."

"You assume he would automatically discard you?" Ella challenged him.

“Not on purpose, but. De facto. I'm just a poor stand-in." John staring lost up at the rooftop, John lost to the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Jim... Jim met his intellectual match in Sherlock. And that was it, that was. That was enough. Life's all downhill from there, so he shot himself. I can't, I can't even stand up to the memory of someone like that."

"If the situation was reversed, and it was Jim who then came back, what would you do?" Today's questions were difficult, and Ella wasn't holding back.

"I put my hand in the hole in Jim's head. He's not coming back." He closed his eyes tight for a moment, turning it over. "I don't know. It might end with funerary services for us both. I... I have something. That doesn't look back at me with hollow eyes. My sister and I have a relationship again."

"Are you saying that if you could have Jim back, you wouldn't?" 

Phrased like that, it sounded horrible. And it made him want to change his answer, because that was betrayal. Jim had been less of a partner and more of a god, someone who'd given him a purpose again, direction. Everything he needed except air to breathe, and sometimes he'd fucked around with that, too. Seb rubbed at one eye, which wasn't. Wasn't damp. "I. I guess that's what I'm saying. He was, he." Fuck, fuck. Fuck. He exhaled, steadying himself. "I know I'd be right back where I was, and it was great, and he was brilliant, but I trusted him and he killed that when he shot himself. I couldn't trust him again." It didn’t matter, Jim didn’t need him to trust, just to obey.

Sentiment.

"Do you think that possibly the situation might be similar for John?" Ella said very gently. "That he might have found in you something similar?"

"For the moment? Sure. I'll do, and that's all right. I don't mind, at all. I just wish I could make him stop hurting." Because there was one key difference. Jim had died because Jim had wanted to. Sherlock had died because he didn't want his friends to die. That was the difference, between a choice and an accidental martyrdom. 

And oh, god. The sightings that he just passed blindly off to Mycroft, that he hadn't thought about until just then, that he never mentioned to John. Didn't dare mention, because it was sick to do that sort of thing to someone you cared about.

"Seb, if you are there and supportive, you are helping," she said. "You are contributing to stopping him hurting. In the end, John has to deal with his own issues. But it helps to have you there while he does it. I have a question for you… Today you have admitted you love John. Do you believe that it is impossible for someone to love you back?"

"Does it matter, if they're willing to put up with me and my shit?" He managed to grin a little unevenly when he said it, pushing back the tightness in his chest.

"I think it does matter Seb. I think you don't value yourself. You've referred before to feeling hollow and empty and we've explored how that relates to your past and childhood," Ella said. "You are not as empty as you would believe."

Maybe yes and maybe no. He licked his bottom lip. "When I was in the army, I had... I was responsible for all of my men, and their fuckups and problems, and I took the hits for them because that's what you do. The chain of command works because you know that if you follow it, the person above you will take the punishment if something went wrong. And everyone below me did what they were supposed to, and I couldn't protect them. I failed my men, and the closest I got to doing right by them was at the end when I took that bastard out. I know three more stepped up to take his place, but I tried. And when I left, they slotted another Colonel into my billet and life went on for everyone. I *don't* matter, I have no value as a human being. I bring no intrinsic use to society. The only thing that matters is what I can do in the larger scheme, for other people who do matter."

"You underestimate yourself," Ella said. "I believe this lies at the heart of a great deal of your issues Seb. You believe you are expendable and have worth only in what you can accomplish. That is what we are going to work on. You have worth outside of what you do. You do have an intrinsic worth just by existing."

"We're going to have to agree to disagree about that right now." 

She smiled at him. "I didn't expect you to say 'you're right! Why didn't I think about that before?'. This will be something very difficult but ultimately worthwhile. To start with, this week I want you to seriously consider what John might see in you. And push past your initial urge to say nothing."

He lifted his eyebrows at her. "I'll try. Might have to travel this week, but I'll try to make Friday."

“I’ll hold your appointment.”

Seb took it as the dismissal it was, and got to his feet, heading for the door. He felt drained and a little breathless. Maybe he could sit in the car for a bit before he started driving.

* * *

John was attempting to read the Sunday newspapers, although he had problems concentrating. He had the nagging suspicion he was missing something. His dreams had been unsettled and fragmentary, which was better than screaming nightmares, but he had a faintly raw feeling in his head that he was pretty sure wasn't to do with the spicy Moroccan lamb.

He had some coffee on for when Seb came home because he knew Seb was struggling a little, but that was partly his fault. Seb had been almost overwhelmingly solicitous the afternoon before, but that had eased back a little to the usual sort of comfortable closeness by the time they were sacked out on the sofa watching something god awful on the TV. And he didn't ask about it again, which John appreciated. Didn't say anything about his slip up to Lestrade, just... was very particularly careful for the rest of the evening. 

Then he'd gone for a run and to see the therapist bright and early, which sort of said quite openly how much he was struggling. And reminded John that he hadn't gone to the therapist for, well, uh...

What could she tell him he didn't already know? He knew his issues. He knew how he was meant to get through them, but actually doing it? That was more difficult.

There was something familiar and heady about the investigation he had muscled into with Seb. He did enjoy it, despite the danger, or because of it.

Probably because of it. He hadn't had a problem with Seb's side of life on the weekend, not a problem at all. It had almost been refreshing, to feel competent and in control somewhere other than an operating room. Seb didn't seem to mind that John had muscled his way into the investigation, and he did bring a different viewpoint. Ask questions first, let Seb shoot and call and threaten later.

He could hear the doorbell downstairs.

John headed downstairs stiffly, pretty sure that Mrs. Hudson was still out and paranoia made him tuck his gun in his trousers. He opened the door carefully, and looked out. "Yes?"

It was a scrawny looking young man in a coat and a hoodie, with plugs in his ears and another piercing in his eyebrow. He was holding a thick sealed envelope tucked under his arm. "I'm looking for Colonel Moran. Is he in?"

"No," John said. "He'll be back shortly with any luck. I can take delivery of the parcel for him, if you want to leave it." It was worth a try at least, though he doubted.

He squinted at John, and kept a hold of the parcel, expression clearly dubious. "Thanks, but no. I'll just sit out here, then. Did he say how long he'd be?"

"Not exactly," he shrugged. "Uh, you really going to wait outside? Might be better if you wait upstairs." If people were watching Seb they would not miss a courier hanging around outside for hours. 

It was better to not draw attention, even if the kid only looked like a middling punk. "Sure. Inviting me in for a cuppa?" He laughed, but came inside when John stepped backwards, still looking over his shoulder. "You look like a schoolteacher."   
"Yeah well, I could perform an emergency tracheotomy on you under fire, and funnily enough the jumper doesn't affect me using a scalpel so...” he said, not really giving a shit what he looked like as he started up the stairs. "There's coffee on. Seb could be back any time from now...”

The kid -- he was convinced he was a kid, now that he'd taken a closer look at him -- followed John up the stairs. "So, you really are the boss's old man. That's fucking hysterical."

John raised his eyebrows at him. "You can tell him that to his face if you want. Coffee I've got or tea. We're out of beer."

"Coffee'd be great. Thanks." He was lingering just inside the closed door, peering around with the eyes of someone with a once in a lifetime view into an inner sanctum. "Don't mean any shit by it, just think it's funny. It's an ongoing thing at work, you know?"

"Yeah?" He poured a mug of coffee and handed it over, getting another for himself. "What type of thing?"  
He might as well do his duty as the Criminal Mastermind’s Significant other.

"New guy gets hired, thinks one of two things: Fuck, boss is a poofter or fuck, I wonder if I can blow my way up the ladder?" The kid was staring at the packed bookshelves. "New guy leaves first day of work with his nose or his jaw busted."

John snorted. "Well that's a novel way of looking at a career plan," he commented. "Obviously don't have enough sense to realize you don't get to the top and stay there like Seb has without being good at what you do."

"They get it figured out, usually. Worked for the boss for a couple of years now." He tilted his head, reading the spines of books. 

"Yeah? Courier work and heading up the ladder?" John said noting what the kid was focusing on. "You want to get on his good side, read the books he wrote on hunting."

“Yeah. I joked him once what he'd do if they shot back, you know? Big cats with big guns. I'll be honest, I never want to see the boss smile like that again, all dreamy and shit." He turned around a little, taking the cup of coffee John was passing him. "Scary as hell. Thanks."

"He likes it. Not something I'm particularly into, but." John shrugged and sat down. He could appreciate the enjoyment from it.

The kid seemed to take that as a signal, and perched carefully at the edge of the other chair. He was keeping his package under his arm, mindful even as he took a sip of coffee. "What happened to your leg?"

"Came back from Afghanistan with it screwed up," he said in a half truth, "Don't get shot if you can help it. It's not like the movies,"

"Yeah? Everyone who's been shot I know is all look at this, it was awesome, and I survived." He laughed, and that sounded about right from what John knew. Machismo running wild.

"Yeah, after the event. During it, it's more like being hit by a car than something tiny. Knocks you on your ass. Most don't walk away."

He could see the kid thinking 'I would', right behind his eyes even when he nodded to John, and took another sip of coffee. "Maybe. A knife can kill you just as quick." He thought of Seb and how it had all begun and had to agree.

"Hey, whose eye bleeding fucking bike's tied up 'round the... Ian!" Seb shut the door behind him. "Hey -- you have a package?" 

"Got it here," the kid said, looking like he trying hard to be cool about being in the presence of the boss.

Seb put his hand out for it, fishing into his pocket with the other hand. "Good. Now, you gunna put half of this in the bank?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ian said practically rolling his eyes as if he received the lecture many times. "Just make sure no one screws over my bank."

John snorted at that comment.

"That's the easy part." Seb handed him a wad of twenties that he fished out of his wallet. "I mean it, half in the bank. I don't want to hear that your girlfriend had to pawn shit for nappies."

"Sure thing boss," Ian replied taking the money, counting half out ostentatiously and then tucking it away. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Yeah, no problem," John replied.

Seb watched him go, and half followed him down the stairs to lock the front door behind him. Then he was back in the room, holding onto the packet. "One day I'll get him squared away. Good kid, though."

"Yeah, he wasn't going to give me your package," John said. He wanted to know what was in the package but Seb looked a little worn. "Tough therapy session?"

“Be very glad that I’ve got enough sense of shame to not want to be nicked for a DWI this early in the morning. ‘What’re you in for? Murder?’ ‘Nah, therapist drove me to drink. I really hate crying.’” Seb rubbed a hand over his mouth, still carrying the package in his other hand when he sat on the arm of John’s chair.

John looked at him and noted the slight puffiness around his eyes. It wasn't an exaggeration. He slipped an arm behind him. "We can lie low for the rest of the day," he suggested. It had to have been a painful sort of break-through to get to Seb like that. 

He felt Seb shift, leaning just a little closer to him. Not that he'd tell John just what the breakthrough was that had knocked him down to that point. He was still holding onto the package. "I'd love that. It's like having someone dig around in your head with a pickaxe. Knock enough shit off the walls, and somehow it’s very productive?"

"I think the principal is you don’t then have to put the old crap back up once it is dislodged, you can chuck it out," John pointed out, glancing at the package briefly. No, Seb being stable and comfortable was more important at the moment. He was in no doubt that his own freak out, such as it was, had affected him badly. Unsettled him.

"You realize you're practically vibrating with wanting to see what’s in this?" Seb slid his free arm on John's shoulder. "I'm grateful you put up with my shit." 

"And you've been putting up with me," John replied. "And yeah, I want to know, but it can wait."

At least for a little while. Seb's fingers stretched, moving with faint restlessness, like he was playing something over in his head. "I know we're really fucking good at not talking. But I want to know when you're having trouble. I know I pretty much wear that I'm fucked up on my sleeve. It's fine to not be okay."

"I know, it's just..." John shrugged."Mmm, I don't know... I'm not even aware when I am sometimes."

Seb leaned in, pressing his mouth against John’s temple, nudging a slow kiss against his skin. “If I could bring him back for you, I would.” And he passed John the packet. “Go on, open it.”

With more than a little relish, John opened the packet, and withdrew the contents. A picture of a man who looked ordinary and average in the extreme, and then some notes. No information on the target but some on their employer. "Do you recognize this group?" he asked passing Seb the paperwork.

Seb took a few moments, eyes flicking over the paperwork, reading it thoroughly while John looked at their very ordinary looking assassin. "I think I'll be swinging by to say hello to my warlord friend. They're Pashtun. Basic crime, smuggling. They get black ops and CIA in and out of the country when the mood suits them."

"When you say swinging by, if you mean going out of the country you are not going alone this time," John said, tugging him closer. He hadn't missed the offer that Seb had made and he was putting the pieces together.

"You know if we both end up in this chair, it's not going to end well." He shifted, though, still leaning against John's side from the arm of the chair. "You realize it'll take a couple of weeks. You can't rush these people. You plan on taking time off from the hospital?"

"It's not like I've taken any holiday so far," he replied. "We can do that. As Mrs. H says, a change is as good as a rest."

"You realize you're volunteering to go to back into the old AO?" Of course he realized. Of course he realized, and it wasn't actually that bad an idea. Hell, it was a more familiar, more comfortable idea for John than following Seb to Central America.

"At least I can claim to have some experience," he said confidently. "And doctors are generally pretty well received over there."

"Médecins sans Frontières," Seb pronounced precisely, and without a hint of irony. "Right. I'll have to go make travel arrangements. Funnily enough, Adams Defense is a subcontractor to one of the big boys, and Task Force Helmand is looking for backfills."

"Will it take long?" John asked and smiled a little. "Because we could... relax a little. Together." He raised his eyebrows at Seb, wanting to show his support in a way Seb would understand.

Seb always understood physicality, where words got muddy and didn't seem to resonate. He felt Seb exhale. "Right. Four and a half hour time difference, eh, I'll do it tomorrow. Next flight's Thursday, and we have to ping pong around for a bit. You're not going to make me kneel over you, are you? This chair's bloody awkward."

He smirked a little, "Maybe we should take this to the bedroom ...if we are going to take our time about it."

Seb slid off of the chair, keeping a hand on John's wrist to help him up. "I think I can get behind that. I wonder what lies you tell your coworkers when they ask what you did all weekend?"

"They learned not to ask early on," John said. "The truth scares more people off than fictions."

"Quiet night in Saturdat, oh, lay around with the newspaper all weekend. I can make a hat out of the paper for you and that'd be right." He leaned in for a kiss, smile actually reaching his eyes this time. It wasn't really a bad way to spend a weekend, with Seb's hand sliding up under his jumper, fingers warm against his back. It really was an excellent way to spend the day, with going back to Afghanistan on the horizon.

* * *

Irene Adler was a snake, a first class bitch, and a masterful keeper of secrets. She was formidable, and cunning, and very good, very sly at what she did. She read people and turned them inside out, and maybe what bothered him the most was knowing that she could’ve done the same to him, *masterfully*, if she hadn’t had tits.

He would’ve been almost grateful to be bi-sexual, just once in his life, to have someone take him down quite that expertly, quite that far. Except sex and trust was as important as the rest of it was, the game of it, which was why it would never happen. Still, she made him think about it just by existing, and his fingers itched at the edge of the cuff on his right wrist. Felt good, and he could focus. Everything was going perfectly swimmingly, even if he was making haphazard decisions when he wasn’t really in a state to make them.

Hell, he was a poster boy for people who needed to be committed, given what he was about to do. He knocked hard on the door to her house, which might or might not have been occupied. Still, it was a Monday, early afternoon, and who got their jollies off during working hours?

The door was answered by one of her live-in submissives, all beautiful in their own right. "Do you have an appointment?" the red head asked with perfect poise.

At least she was dressed. He looked past her, into the hallway that was bare and pristine, a personality all on its own. “No, I don’t. Tell Mrs. Adler it’s Colonel Moran. We need to talk.”

She inclined her head and then disappeared for a moment, before returning. "She will see you momentarily. If you will just come and wait in the living room a moment... please follow me."

"Thank you." He looked behind him out of habit, and stepped inside to follow her to the living room. An evening in with John had been comfortable and lazy and made him feel better in general, made it easier to shrug back into the work mentality that he needed to arrange transport and work the case, to ferret out more information and more contacts.

There was a brief pause before Irene wandered in gracefully. "Well, Colonel, an unexpected pleasure. Have you come to indulge yourself finally?"

She was too, too beautiful to be real most days. "No." He twitched an eyebrow at her as he stood up. "I know you didn't get that information from a backbencher. I want to know what's going on."

She sat down elegantly. "My, my Sebastian, are you feeling forceful today? You must be training the good doctor well in seeing to your needs. Now why do you believe I was not entertaining a back bencher?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're entertaining a back bencher, but in this case, you didn't get the information from him. In fact, I can't find another information trace on this in the government. Nothing. Which..." He sat back down, because it was that or pace agitatedly and he was really fucking good at that which just let her get under his skin. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, steeling himself for the complete insanity he was about to say. "I know Sherlock Holmes is alive, and that you were in Prague, actually, when Willie died."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "If John Watson had said this to me I wouldn't be at all surprised, but it does surprise me from you. Why would you believe that Sherlock is alive, Sebastian? Is your need to be hurt so strong you invent the possibility of future pain to haunt yourself?"

Her pupils had dilated faintly, though, so he leaned forward, still fixed on her face. Micro expressions gave people away, when he remembered to watch for them -- even someone as schooled as Irene couldn't suppress biology. "My issues are completely separate of what my network tells me. Some of my boys have reported back they *swear* they've seen him, circulating around between five or six of the bigger cities. But it's always fucking Prague."

"Prague is a refuge for lost souls," she said. "But that does not mean it is a city of the dead. I cannot answer you Sebastian, and you know it."

"That's as good as a yes." He rubbed at the edge of his jaw, but kept his eyes on her face. Not fixated on anything, just watching, he didn't need to get focus lock now. Never mind that it hurt. "The police have the recording. They're working to clear his name now. I... thank him for the clue, and tell him to get the fuck back already. It's killing John."

"I don't think it is," she said. "He seems very content with you. He has adapted to you, haven't you noticed? Or are you too wrapped up in your own melodrama and self-pity to realize that?"

His jaw clenched, because Irene went right for the heart, every time. She never failed to make him want to punch her right in the mouth. He had a mouthful of responses to that, and he swallowed all of them because it was easier to withdraw. "I didn't, I'm not discussing that with you."

"No, I thought not." She looked at him carefully. "Do you really want to throw yourself on your sword so badly Sebastian that you would chase after the possibility?"

"No, but if he's out there, and I think we both know he is, this... Bits and pieces." Was probably going to drive him completely insane, with little text messages and audio recordings that never should have existed.

"Messages from beyond," Irene said cryptically. "Obviously the text message was important enough. That should say it all."

“Yeah. Fucking texts messages from beyond the grave. Next time you see him, tell him to go fuck himself for me." He had what he needed, he supposed. After a fashion, even if it hadn't helped. Seb stood up, heading for the door. There were other things to do, reports to turn in to Mycroft, anything, *anything* at all to do except sit there across from that smug bitch and have her make flat denials.

"Be careful on your trip," Irene warned. "I would hate to have to embrace chaos again."

He flipped her off on his way out the door, which was childish, yeah, but it felt halfway satisfying. So did blowing past the pretty petite red-head, slamming the front door behind him and rushing down the stairs. He blew past his car, too, had to circle back around and unlock it, which left him feeling like a complete fucking moron. There was plenty for him to do, to plan, to knock out before the flight Thursday.

It was going to be ridiculously easy travel, too. No faked passports for the first leg, just the between countries part, the smuggle across the border part, and that was easy. He'd do John's up that night. The key was to make them look used. 

He swung by one of the storage units, hauled out his old best rucks and a couple of sets of clothes that were performance but didn't scream contractor scum, his camelbak, some of the better molle he had, armor, slings, and a bunch of drop pouches and pockets and shit, until the back of his car looked like a boot sale for fucking Blackhawk. He had the rappelling gear he liked best still in the apartment, so he locked the storage unit up and headed back home.

Going forward was always easier than going backward, or thinking. He always got himself in the shit when he started thinking, and the last two days were proof of that.

He was surprised to hear voices in the flat when he got back, and the sort of frustrated tone in John's voice that could only be generated by one person.

"We're going because we want to go," John was saying. "It's like a holiday."

"Like a holiday? It's dangerous!" Harry was protesting.

"It's a great way to spend a couple of weeks," Seb cut in brightly, knocking the door open with his knee. He set it all down carefully in the middle of the floor before absently shaking out his arm. "We'll have to check your fit. And get another camelbak, 'less you've still got yours."

"It'll probably do," he said looking at him with relief. "Harry, it's not like we haven't been out there before."

"Yes, but you were getting *paid* to do that then and I told you it was stupid then. There were better things to do with your life than get shot at. I know doctors, you could be the head of some surgery by now, as smart as you are, John, and look at you..."

Fucking hell, and he'd thought Irene was bad. "If you're here to berate John, you can get out now. Keep it civil or I'll show you to the door."

"Excuse me." Harry drew herself up. "I am his sister! I have a right to tell him when he is willfully putting himself in danger."

"And I've been doing it all my adult life." John pointed out. "Seriously, Harry, I'm going. It's something I'm doing, okay?"

He was going to put a note on the door on their way out, 'Gone back to Afghanistan, sincerely, the idiot soldiers'. Seb sat cross-legged on the floor, and carefully started to sort out the various bits of gear he'd assembled, checking them for wear and cleanliness. "And you're not going to change his mind. Anyway, I'll keep him safe."

"You?" Harry seemed frankly disbelieving. "You're the one taking him to Afghanistan again. Where he got shot and nearly died before? And you're keeping him SAFE?"

“I suppose ‘safe’ is a bit of a misnomer. John’s a perfectly capable soldier in his own right, and a crack shot. Still, if you’re going downrange, the buddy system’s tried and true for a reason. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have watching my back. It’ll be fine.” He carefully checked every buckle on the first vest; the plate was shattered, and there was a fray spot on the fabric, a puff of ruin while he tried to remember what had happened there. Jim and something. And probably alcohol.

Harry looked like she was going to launch into another diatribe and John shook his head. "Harry, I've nearly been killed more times in England than I was in Afghanistan."

"Is that meant to make me feel better?"

It was probably a lie, too. After all, there was all of the little near deaths. The sound of mortars coming in to the FOB, trying to find the fucking spotter before they learned to god-damned aim, settling in to line up the shot, and...

Seb set that vest aside, and started to check the next one, more careful this time. "Dunno, did it work?"

"No!" Harry seemed almost beside herself. "John, please...can't you see this is insanity?"

"I see this as necessity," he said firmly. "I am capable of looking after myself."

"You can barely make it up the stairs," she said gesturing at his cane. "Seriously."

"Oh, for Christ’s sake -- it's fucking psychosomatic. The bullet blew through his shoulder. His leg stops hurting when he's in a dangerous situation." He pulled open a pouch that still had chemlights in it, and was briefly tempted to throw one at the back of Harry's head except she whirled on him as if it were all his fault.

Well, maybe it was.

"Pardon me for not wanting him to have to test that theory," Harry said sarcastically. "You should be stopping him. If you really care for him you should be stopping him."

He leaned his elbows on his knees, peering up at Harry. "You know, this is the third time in two days I've had the 'if I really cared' talk with a woman. I love your brother, and I *didn't* ask him to go to on this trip with me. He volunteered himself. Didn't even take him a second to say he was coming, and I'm not stupid enough to leave him here waiting around -- pissed the fuck off, I might add -- for me to get back."

"That's not—" Harry's protest was almost immediately cut off by John. 

"Shut up, Harry." John was staring at him. "Did you just say what I thought you said?"

He tilted his head, looking over at John as he finally set the chem lights to the other side. "What did you think I said?"

"You just said you loved me," John said looking at him intently.

"What-"

"Shut up Harry," John said again not even looking at her.

The next pouch ended up clutched in both hands, not yet opened. "That's not going to be a deal breaker for you, is it? I know we, I've just been Sherlock's stand in, how it started out, but you're something else to me."

"Sherlock's stand in?" John seemed a bit incredulous. "That's the first time you've told me that you love me and you think you're Sherlock's stand in?"

"Does anyone even care that I'm here?" Harry put in. "Hello?" She waved her hands dramatically between them. There was a reason why he tended to see Harry’s number on caller ID or John’s mobile and dismiss the call.

He put one hand up in a stop gesture, fist closed tight. "Yeah?"

"You idiot," John said sounding fondly exasperated. "I've been sure I wasn't measuring up to what you wanted and needed from Moriarty."

"From Moriarty?" Harry's voice pitched upwards really uncomfortably.

"Yeah, well, I still meant that thing I said with the belt? But honestly, there's a line between kink and survival games, and I just... Jim was a sociopath. He loved himself." And Seb had loved him, done everything for him and fucking loved every second of it. But that was done and he couldn’t make the past come back for him. He had something there. His fingers fumbled the clasp, but there was nothing inside the pouch, so it set it with the chem lights. "You're everything I need."

"Harry, you know, it might be an idea if you left right now," John said. "I think Seb and I have to discuss something."

"No way, I...”

"Harry, when I say it might be an idea, I mean, leave now."

"Unbelievable. You're unbelievable, John! This isn't the end of this conversation!" 

"If you could call to finish it, though, it's much easier for me to disconnect the phone," Seb offered, leaning back a little as she made her way to the door, and left. Probably in a rage. 

"Seriously... Seb," John was looking at him. "You think that? Really?"

He tilted his head again, realizing that he was basically sitting behind a defensive barrier of gear on the floor, while John was in his chair. "Yeah. So, it's not a deal breaker?"

John smiled and shook his head. "No Seb. And you don't sit there wishing I was someone else… Shit, I've been worrying about that."

"Shouldn't have." He got up from the floor, one knee protesting that it liked the floor better, thanks, back twinging a bit, to reach for John. "C'mon. You're going to weld into that chair some day. I'll swap it out when you're not looking."

“Stop thinking I'm going to drop you Seb," John replied. "Seriously. There is no competition."

No, not as long as Sherlock Holmes stayed the fuck dead. He got John to sit on the floor, which had the upside of all of the room in the world, and he could slide up behind him. "Good. Better than good. I." Liked that he could touch John without getting knifed and that John shoved back sometimes when the timing was wrong, and that he could just be close. That he smelled like John and antiseptic, and that he was developing a knee jerk reaction to that smell. "This needs to be inventoried."

"We can do that," John said and he seemed to be smiling to himself. "You need to tell me this stuff."

It was comfortable on the floor, as long as he never had to get to his feet again. "Seriously, it's taken me all week to get to that. I think I'm done with this talking shit for a bit."

“I think you've said everything that needs to be said," John replied. "This was the therapy thing?"

John was leaning on his shoulder, and he felt nothing at all like doing proper inventory just then. "Dinner last Tuesday, actually."

"Oh." John twisted. "I never wanted you to feel like that Seb. I don't say what I should, I know that. I cock up, I want to… to keep you. I love you."

He leaned his forehead against John's, and grinned. Seb felt oddly like one of those dogs in an RSPCA advert. Find a forever home! Mind the taser the last one had. "This is what the army was always afraid of, two fags sharing ‘I love yous’ over a pile of busted kit. It's all downhill from here, Army’ll never be the same..."

John chuckled. "Fuck, we'll be ducking off behind a sand dune before anyone can finish saluting. Not that that was particularly comfortable. Never get sand in a condom, I'm telling you."

"Aghh, that sounds really horrible." Not in a fun way. Not that he'd gotten up to it too much after he'd gotten past LTC. "I thought up against a rusting conex was bad. Hell of a reason to get a tetanus booster, but I think sand wins."

"Not personal experience but I treated a few people for whom it was." John replied. “You know, you stand as my most successful relationship ever?”

He laughed again, sitting back slightly to pass John a different drop pouch. "Jesus, that doesn't say much for either of us."

"Nope." John grinned though some of that pained expression that had been haunting him melting away. "I'm going to have to pack a decent medical kit aren't I? Antibiotics were excellent currency...any chance you can get some through your contacts?"

"Yeah, that's dead easy since we've got a couple days. What else comes to mind? You look at things from a different point of view than I do." He checked the last vest, and that was good. He'd have to fit them to John, but that could wait until the morning.

"Pain killers, antibiotic creams, antiseptics. Purifying tablets... I'll make a list. We used to find that locals were keen on getting those things... You could try money, but actually the things that even money couldn't get a hold of were most valuable. For a lot of people this sort of thing was out of reach." John said. "There were a couple of times my med-kit got the squad out of a hostile area."

"Then we'll go heavy on that. Test how much we need to carry." He didn't plan to go too heavy on ammo, because he wasn't bringing any precious weapons with him, nothing he couldn't toss for a local weapon. "We'll spend more time getting in and out than we'll actually spend finding these people."

"You've got contacts right?" John asked still smiling as he organized the kit.

Fast and focused, so Seb shifted, shoulder to shoulder with John to get his own organized. They'd make short work of the mess together, and that was oddly satisfying. "I also have backup contacts in the event that someone ices my contacts."

"Sounds complicated. So when are we going?" He hadn't lost the soldier knack of sorting his kit.

"Flight’s on Thursday. RC-South, Task force Helmand. I'm filling a security billet, you're there as contract medical. We'll have to play our parts for a day, then make a break for it and go out to meet Raham Dil. And no, he does not have a merciful heart. But god, he fucking loves money."

"Mm." John nodded. "Easy enough to carry off. Do we know each other there?"

"We're both coming from Adam's Defense. I figure it's easier if we do. I'll be honest, I could probably do the whole six months there." He gave John a shrug as he stuck a few pouches onto his vest. "Uhn, right. I should get this piled up on the sofa."

"Yeah. I'll just try on the kit you brought back see if it is ridiculously large or adaptable," John said pushing himself up.

He got up with him, reaching for John's jumper to peel it off of him. "Worse case, we go by a supply store and get you some of those new ones with the built in tourniquets."

John laughed. "If you have a military kink, now is the time to tell me?"

"I was thinking more, telling your sister this is how I plan to keep you safe," Seb grinned throwing John's jumper onto the sofa. The hard part was going to be getting John naked and then getting him dressed again.

“Just pray she doesn't come back right now," John said shucking off his clothes bit by bit.

"Seriously? Seriously? I like my sister a lot more than yours, John. I like my brother in law more than I like your sister." He looked over his shoulder almost suspiciously.

"Mmm, pass me the kit," he said. "How much bigger are you anyway?"

He stepped up close to John, holding one uniform and the smaller vest. "I dunno, got a good 8, 9 inches on you? I had all the short jokes beaten out of me ages ago."

"It's not like I am really short, you tall bastard," John said. "Okay, 5ft 7 is pretty short but even so."

"Even so, I like how you fit against me. Even if these probably need hemming." It was taking an act of god to not do anything to John naked, and when he pulled the trousers on it didn't look half bad. Not really. He slid his thumbs in along the waistband, hiking them up. Much too loose. "Yeah, trip to the surplus store tomorrow."

"Yeah, I look pretty pathetic wearing these," he said looking at him. "No one will believe these." They were far too tempting and they would have to be very discreet in Afghanistan.

Mission focus should help, Seb decided as he leaned down to kiss John. Maybe he could burn it out of their system over the next couple of days, except it'd been months and months and he still liked the way John leaned into him, groaning. Liked the way John’s body fit against his, liked that he could stretch his fingers a little and get himself two nice handfuls of ass.

And that was not someone knocking on the door. He should've followed Harry downstairs and locked the front door, too. "Oh, fucking Christ."

"...you really need to start seeing your therapist again," Harry said from the door way. "God, I really didn't need to see your role-plays. I... uh."

"Harry, privacy? Foreign concept I know but...seriously."

Seb groaned, keeping his hand right where it was because it was probably the only thing keeping the pants from making a slow slide down John's hips. "You're like every nightmare of in-laws I've seen on TV. I thought we were done."

"I came over to drop something off, and I forgot to leave it," Harry said. "And I... didn't want you to go off after us yelling at each other."

"We do that all the time," John said. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know but...uh... yeah. So, you know, I apologize."

Seb kept his mouth shut, pulling away from John a little, while he slid his hand around the back of John's camos to keep the slack up. There was being grouchy, and then there was being an asshole when he didn't need to be. She was probably scared stiff for John. "Thanks Harry," John was trying to give her attention. "I'll be careful, I promise okay?"

"If you get shot, I'll kill you myself," Harry replied firmly. She put down the bag. "Carry on the pair of you."

“He's not getting shot," Seb called after her. He did follow her that time, down the stairs at a slight distance, and much to his misery, she stopped. Like she was going to say something else, when he'd just left John upstairs with his trousers probably falling down.

"Just... make sure he makes it back in one piece," Harry said in a low voice. "You've gotta watch him. He just...does things. He doesn't think them through. You ask him how he got shot in the first place. Just...look after him."

"I will. It's in my best interests to get him back in one piece. It'll be fine. Just... don't worry if it takes a couple of weeks." Rebecca was used to him being an asshole that ran off.

"Fine. But make him call when you get back. And you might want to tell your sister too. " Harry said as she was leaving. "God only knows why but sisters tend to worry."

"Good night, Harry." He loitered long enough to watch her head down the sidewalk before he shut the downstairs door nice and solidly, and then mounted the stairs quickly. "And, your sister's left for the day for real this time. I thought you were fucking kidding me."

"She really can't leave it alone," John said. "I'm always having to delete her comments on the blog. Usually I get the abusiveness in private."

"I saw. She'd already started in on you before I came in." He closed that door, too, and the space between John and himself, because he could. "You'll get cold standing around in pants that don't fit and nothing else."

"Get over here and warm me up then," John mock ordered and grinned. The cargos didn’t manage to keep their hold on John’s hips this time, and it was so damn easy to kneel down in front of him, feeling stupidly grateful that everything had evened out, that he was there despite everything, that it hadn’t been a deal breaker. That John was going back to Afghanistan with him.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He and John hiked in relative silence, alert to the fact that they were two British citizens operating alone and unafraid, wearing uniforms. When they finally reached the edges of the village, he saw a tell-tail plume of smoke coming from a chimney -- sending signals to the insurgency? Or to their contact to hook up with Raham Dil?

The trip to UAE had been long and sore-making, as had been the first stages of team bonding when everyone had piled into the airport shuttle and exchanged names and vague hellos because that was the team he was going to leave completely fucking high and dry to run off into the mountains with Seb. They’d all gone to dinner that night with a few others from the plane from another group, eaten good food, drank, gotten a little raucous telling old war stories.

Seb was playing it friendly and creepy all at the same time, in a way that left John feeling out of sorts because Seb was instantly best buddies ever with annoying arrogant fellows he was pretty sure Seb would’ve run down with his car on any other day. That might’ve been why the conversation kept moving *to* guns, because Seb could do two worlds worth of machismo with gun talk. It left John with the two other medical people, a woman doctor, Viviane, and a male nurse, Richard. Viviane had been downrange before, as one of the royal marines; Richard wanted to pay bills down and ‘get some real experience’ outside of emergency rooms.

They were all Adams Defense contract fills. They all worked for Seb and no one had a clue the boss was in the room. It would make for a really weird secret boss type reality TV show.

John found the familiarity of the place rushing back to him. The gritty heat, the mindset of counting every single dressing, swab and medical supply. He'd found himself practically lecturing the others on the importance of not wasting anything. Just because he was running away was no excuse for poor advice. Particularly for the Nurse, because there was no resupply that was trustworthy or timely when they most needed it; Viviane had already lived that fact, that no matter how long the tail, there was always more tooth in medical than the logisticians seemed to grasp.

By the time the night had started to wind up to an end, one of the security boys had started to joke about the three medicals, right up until Seb had jammed a heel into a chair leg and spilled him right onto his ass.  
John had grinned and made a joke of it all and was a bit disappointed that they would have to be discreet because he was feeling lightly buzzed about being there. It seemed ridiculous but it settled around him like a well-worn comfortable set of clothes.

They hadn't even gotten in country, but it felt good. It felt good to be heading there, it felt good. If everything in London went south for real, they could do that again, just. Go, be contractors, put themselves into war zones. It was almost a comfort to know that he could fall back on that and feel really very satisfied. 

It kept him focused on the long plane ride over, watching as, after takeoff, Seb slid out of his safety belt and started up a card game, cheerily beckoning the medicals to join him. When on a long flight like that, in a plane that damn loud, people fell into two categories: Social sorts, and the ones who put their headphones in and wanted everyone else to fuck off and die.

He joined in, because that was what he did. He had a reputation back in the military of being able to be the doctor and a soldier. Part of being a soldier was knowing the people around you, and he made sure to get to know them all.

It wasn't half bad, either, betting on cigarettes and packages of biscuits. There was more talking and shooting the shit than actual serious card playing going on, which was good because he was half sure there were at least two cheats, and John only knew that because he was partially counting cards himself. He swore he'd seen too many queens. Fred was a retired NCO, looking to get into the fray, as was Scott. Scott had been blackops, and was looking at everyone around the pallet with a glint in his eyes that made him wonder what he was thinking. There was a former London policeman who was there to support some law enforcement training and the kid with the mouthy edge, Phil.

Phil was going to seriously be in for a Darwin award if he didn't wise up. John remembered that too, the smart-ass kids who thought they knew it all and ended up on his surgical table. Scott seemed to give him more of a hint of respect when he mentioned he'd been a field doctor. He knew they assumed his leg was the injury and he wasn't going to correct their idea.

Best to leave it be, rather than add in the never reassuring 'No, no, I'm a head case. The leg is really fine'. Scott had been an operator, so he had the sense to know the use of a good medic. Viviane spent the ride back in her seat, with her headphones in, and after four hours of cards, they had all slowly filtered back to their seats to do the same, in the hope of landing sooner for it. John couldn't sleep; he was too excited, and when they touched down, there was too much to do -- gear to move, themselves to move, tents to sack out into for the night before the last leg of the trip to the base. 

It was all hurry up and wait, go go go, stop, and he lost track of tracking Seb in the fray of it, and focused on what he needed to be doing for the medical team. Richard had no gumption for making sure that the supplies that had been shipped with them made it, so John and Viviane had done an impromptu late night inventory. They lined up to integrate into a convoy the next morning, met and blended in with the soldiers -- two security and one med contractor per back of a vehicle, an arrangement that made John wonder who was doing IED emplacement calculations for the route to come up with that distribution. 

He was just loading his two rucks in when someone slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Hello, lad. You holding up all right under the heat? Hey, Scott, get over here! This one's second sled in the line!"

"Yeah, it's not so bad," he said. Seb was playing that they didn't know each other more than colleagues and he could go along with that. He couldn't help but notice he got the two most experienced soldiers as his escort.

There was no question that was planned, but Seb had no pull there on the ground -- he was just another one of the guys. It left John wondering how Seb pulled it off over and over and over, getting what he wanted without any pull or threats. Social manipulation? "Good! Good. Plenty of water on you, right?"

"Christ, it's like going out with my old commander," Scott muttered, jostling with Seb for a minute while they added their gear to the mess and waited for John to get in first. 

Seb laughed, "Right, and when I asked Phil the same question, he looked at me like I was a fucking talking dog, and then got up and put water in his camelbak. I assume everyone's dead stupid. Saves me a fuck ton of time, mate."

"You'd be amazed how many soldiers I treated for dehydration," John commented. "Yeah, I'm kitted out...and yeah, I know how to look after myself much as I appreciate the fucking babysitting service."

"Hey, medics are the only people worth babysitting." Seb put a foot into the vehicle, and hauled himself up smoothly. "We've got ten mikes to depart."

"I promise you if we take a hit I'll try and keep all your limbs attached," John replied getting in. "Any reports of activity on this route?"

"It's a long row of sigacts," Scott supplied, sitting down across from John. "But we have air support, so it should be a quiet ride in."

"See? Nothing to worry about," Seb supplied, settling in beside John, and stretching out faux-lazily.

"Yeah, I've heard that before," John replied. "Usually, just before it all fucks up."

Scott snorted. "Glad you're a positive guy, eh? So what did you do before you decided to come back, doc?"

"Shifts in a London hospital. Mainly casualty and emergency surgery," John replied. "Can't really hold down full hours, but they are grateful for trauma surgeons."

"These hours aren't going to be a problem for you, are they?" Like he wouldn't have been asked that when he interviewed with, right, the staff of Adams Defense. Seb was giving him a blandly curious look, but his sprawled legs intruded comfortably into John's space.

"Well, we all went through medical workups to get back out here," Seb offered. "I don't think they’d let anyone slide."

"The full hours thing was not due to stamina,” John said. “Let's just say I had some difficulties readjusting." It was all true and he ought to be disturbed b how easy it was to come back here.

Seb gave a quiet laugh. "Yeah, shit, I tried this banking job my father arranged for me and I wanted to blow my brains out. It didn't matter. Nothing *mattered*."

Scott gave a shrug, just as the shouts started to come down the line that they were moving out. "Same here. I did contract solicitations for a while." 

"You fuckers are depressing me," their NCO driver drawled, looking back over his shoulder. "I just want to go home."

"Yeah, give me a while and I'll probably be craving the constant British rain," John said, holding on. The roads out here could buck them all over the damn place.

"Best suntan I ever got. Better than holiday in Malaga," Scott laughed.

It evened out like that, with Scott and their soldiers and Seb trading light barbs, John joining in where it felt right. Now the focus wasn't on fighting, supposedly, but training, and the protection and smooth handoff to the Afghan forces. Supposedly, though John supposed he'd feel more strongly one way or another if he and Seb weren't planning a minor international incident.

He guessed that Seb had something planned. Maybe a possible "abduction" or mercy mission where they would appear to disappear. After all, they would need to come out somehow."

There was just a question of how, and Seb kept all of that up in his head. If John didn't trust him, it would've been annoying. As it was, it was annoyingly familiar. If he asked the right question, a completely honest answer came out, but they weren't in a position to ask Seb questions. He had to hold it back, and instead talk complete bollocks like they often did when they were whiling away the time. The roads were as bad as he remembered and a bad jolt had him massaging a sore hip. That led to good natured teasing about soft doctors needing cushions. That kept them going for a while.

Which was better than the way Seb shifted, slouched and then bolt upright and then back to slouching, hands on the seat and arm muscles straining to keep as much weight off of his back as possible. He didn't glance over often, couldn't, really, because looking drew attention and Scott was sharp, the best and the worst guy to be in a transport with. 

The banter never faltered, which helped. The two soldiers in front started to ask how much money they made and how many years in they'd had and what did they do at home and they reminisced about girlfriends back home and siblings and parents and... And. It felt normal to John, all of it. He'd been there before, literally, extreme déjà vu of knowing people intensely, secrets that they'd probably never shared with their closest mates, days, weeks, hours before they got a limb blown off.

The difference now was the connection he had back with Seb. He desperately wanted to offer to massage his back, like he did when it was bothering him at home and he'd knead him into a limp boneless puddle. He wanted that, and he wanted to touch him without watching himself. There was a contrast heightened sensation of adrenalin that kept reality buzzing. "So how much further?"

"Should be another fifteen, twenty mikes," the driver offered. "This is where the going gets hard. I'd like to say that's a guaranteed time of arrival, but I'd be lying, sir."

"Hell, I'd forgotten how shitty roads could get out here," John said. "What's the state of the base camp?"

"Excellent. Running water, something that passes for heat when you need it, shade, the messing is good..." 

And then the world went muffled and warped and grey for a moment, too loud, and he could hear small arms fire under the sound of shouting, yelling. "Shit." John was automatically reaching for his gun, and then for his emergency medical pack as if it was second nature. "Ambush?" Was this what Seb had planned or a genuine attack?

"Looks like."

"Gunner!" The soldier in the passenger seat squirmed into the back, to get into the turret. Maybe not. Seb and Scott both went alert, but it seemed nothing out of the ordinary. There were no cues that it was what Seb had planned.

The fifty cal started to fire, and Seb slid off of his seat to start positioning ammo for the man.

John was trying to keep down and scope out if he needed to get to any injuries. There was smoke drifting up ahead, and he wasn't sure if that was where the explosion had occurred. IED probably unless they had lucked out with a group that had mortars, for fucks sake. He gathered all his medical gear from where he had stowed it and got ready for his own form of action. "Can you see what happened?"

"We've got a mobility kill two back. Lay suppressive fire!" It was a repeat of something over the radio, but it was damn good advice as he started towards the vehicle two back. He was a doctor, that was what Doctors did. 

He heard the sharp hard whistling of another mortar -- Christ, those bastards had excellent aim, there had to be aiming stakes somewhere out there that they'd practiced to -- and felt himself flattened to the ground seconds before his hearing went underwater.

He was shaking his ears and realized that contrary to his first thought that half a truck had landed on him, it turned out to be Seb who had knocked him to the ground. He gestured that he had to go, get to whoever might be bleeding out somewhere. 

He shook his head sharply, grabbing John by the back of his ruck to yank him in the other direction. Off the road, the other way -- that was insane. That was against what John did, because with two mortars on target there had to be someone who needed attention.

He stumbled badly and took it that Seb had seen something he hadn't. This seemed to be borne out by the impact right about near where they were... If they had stayed there. Shit, it was like trying to run blind with gritty dust hanging in thick clouds around them. He could just see Seb and was sticking close to him.

Forging forward, staggering over the ruts in the road and through a culvert, across to the field. And then through the field, with Seb stopping to start stripping all of the reflective tape from John's pack. "We've got to keep moving."

"Where the hell are we going?" John replied, panting a little and wanting to swill out his dust caked throat... "There are wounded back there Seb." 

"Window of opportunity. We need to keep going; they might have to stage a medivac in this field." Seb ran a hand back through his hair, and shouldered, Christ. He had both their extra rucks. "C'mon, let's make this speedy."

"You choose now to run off and make contact with your warlord buddy? They are going to be out there looking for us... They'll think we got taken hostage," John said. Fuck it, he had the full medical kit, they might get overloaded.

"Yeah, and if we leave the post straight up in the night they'll think we turned coat. This is shit either way, and I'll be honest, your sister is going to fucking shit bricks, but I'll have a media stranglehold on and we'll see how bad it goes. C'mon."

Harry was going to kill him if it got back that he had been abducted by Afghan forces. Christ. Nothing for it, but to run as best he could after Seb, who was still managing to get ahead of him even with the two rucks. He blamed his long legs for the advantage.

Well, his long legs and that nasty habit of taking morning runs when John was still eyeing the bedroom clock and going no fucking way. They cleared the field with John panting, made it to the next culvert, where Seb gestured at him to stay in it.

He knew when to obey orders, but it didn't stop him having his gun ready to cover Seb if he had to. Where the hell was he going now? He had a horrible suspicion they were going to end up hostages for real if they weren't careful.

But Seb didn't leave the culvert, instead scanning the horizon briefly before he took his pack off and started to fish around in it. "Netting. We'll have to lay low until they've cleared the scene. I should still be able to use the sat phone once we're covered."

"Great," John replied trying to shake out the ringing in his ears. Strange how he could deal with this when a year old audio tape could break him into pieces. "You're in charge." Part of staying alive was knowing who to follow orders from or whether you needed to provide your own, and John counted himself as a survivor one way or another.

"Feel free to usurp me if I seem unhinged," Seb offered, grabbing a handful of grass while he spread the netting out over them. Three, four layers of netting spread over John then dry grass, and Seb laid down in the culvert beside him, their packs breaking up the lines. "Oof."

"Well, shit, missed my chance," John said lying back on the dead grass of the culvert. It wasn't particularly comfortable, especially now his leg was chiming in with 'holy shit, what have we just done? I can't do that!' cramps and pain. "I hope Scott made it."

“He’s fine.” Whether Seb actually knew it as fact or not, he’d say it with just as much conviction. He stretched out, exhaling hard and trying to ease himself down, and John was there with him because fuck, his lungs and his leg hurt. “Right. Calling him now.” 

"As long as it wasn't his men attacking us just then." John’s voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. He took a moment to cough, lungs still burning. "I say when we get back, we were grabbed and then traded off to your guys. Or we could make up some heroic crap." 

"Grabbed and then traded off to our guys, who very helpfully brought us forward. Everybody wins," Seb muttered, staring up at the netting before closing his eyes. "Bonus points for returning hostages who paid you money to smuggle them out of and then back into a warzone. I should write my memoirs, to be published on my demise. Well, maybe the demise of everyone I knew. Eh, as-salaamu alaykum." The other man must have picked up, so John fell to listening quietly, to the smooth rise and fall of Seb's voice. John had put real effort into learning Farsi, because he'd been scheduled to go to Iraq instead; but he still understood roughly what was being said, even when Seb struggled through a rough patch of mixed Rs, Ls and Hs, pulling faces as he corrected himself.

As far as he could make out it sounded like they wanted to rendezvous somewhere a few miles away across the rugged terrain out of sight of the main road. Some sort of village or settlement. He heard the description of doctor a few times -- he'd certainly learned that and enough to be able to converse about basic medical problem -- assumed Seb was telling them who was with him so he wouldn't be shot on sight. It took some talking though, even just to arrange the meet and John sipped at his water because even under the shade of the netting it was goddamn hot.

Just blistering, lingering heat.

He could tell Seb saying they wouldn't be able to move from their spot for a few hours, because the place was crawling with activity just then. And he was right, there was an ambush, and they'd maybe moved a mile. Maybe less, John wasn't sure; neither was he going to stick his head up to gawk just then. Impatience could ruin a plot in no time. But it seemed like it was a done deal, because Seb eventually hung up, and shifted a little, reaching over to pull John's boonie hat down over his forehead, shading John's eyes better than his ballistic lenses did. "If you want to sleep for a couple of hours, I'll take first watch. When we hit the village, we'll be travelling straight on through the night."

"Yeah, like sleeping is going to be easy," John replied. But surprisingly, now the adrenalin was climbing down from high alert, he did feel a bit wasted. He knew the advantage of grabbing sleep where and when he could in this situation, so he tried.

It didn't take as long as he'd expected

* * *

As far as completely insane schemes, it had to rank into the top five -- but there was no other way to infiltrate into Pakistan without pinging the radar of at least ten intelligence agencies, some of whom were going to be on high alert, and others who, he suspected, were actually involved in the scheme in a deeper, personal way that he wouldn't be able to confirm until he got in country and had the opportunity to talk to a few key individuals.

Just because everyone pretended to play nice with each other, didn't mean they actually meant it.

He and John hiked in relative silence, alert to the fact that they were two British citizens operating alone and unafraid, wearing uniforms. When they finally reached the edges of the village, he saw a tell-tail plume of smoke coming from a chimney -- sending signals to the insurgency? Or to their contact to hook up with Raham Dil?

He assumed the latter while preparing for the former. He had been moderately surprised by John; he knew some of the stories of course, but he had been guilty of assuming John was more doctor than soldier. He should have remembered that out here, you didn't get a choice about being a soldier. John was capable, and able to keep up in a way that meant he didn't have to slow down too much. Yeah, he wasn't in completely peak fitness, but nowhere near as bad as Seb had assumed he might be.

Speed wasn't as important as stamina, and it wasn't as if he was at peak condition, either. Still, he'd kept his ruck and John's extra, never mind that his back was killing him. They'd be offloading a good chunk of the medical supplies as soon as they made their contact. 

They just needed to live long enough to make the connection. Third stone house on the right from their direction, with a light in the corner, that was their target.

He was aware of eyes watching them both and John had gone wary, looking from side to side in a scanning motion that was at once instinctive and effective. It was probably no coincidence that he could only see one figure out in the street. Others were probably wondering if it was some elaborate trap.

The figure didn’t even acknowledge he was there, but just stood watching them approach.

So Seb kept walking, following the instructions he'd been given because he was expected to trust Raham. So he was going to openly trust Raham, keeping John between the buildings and himself, taking the open street side for himself. Not that it could help if someone came at them from a doorway, but shit. There wasn't much else to do. They stopped at the house, and he knocked.

The door was opened very suspiciously, a gun poking out before anything else. "Identify yourself," came the instruction in Farsi, as if it weren't obvious.

"The colonel and a doctor." He didn't make any moves, just kept his hand on his slung gun, waiting for a response that would hopefully be positive.

"What gift did you give to Raham Dil when last you saw him?" came the suspicious enquiry.

He felt a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. He replied, taking his time, "An AS50, wrapped in a tapestry with a verse from the Koran. 'Then fight in the cause of God, and know that God Heareth and knoweth all things.' "

"Then enter friend, and your companion also," the sentry replied and opened the door. "You are welcome in this place." 

"My thanks." He turned slightly, grabbing John by the shoulder. It was a relief when the door shut behind them, and they'd stepped into the house's dim lighting.

There were the usual groups of fighters, remaining well covered and disguised as they eyed John a little suspiciously, but relaxing visibly when they saw the universally known symbol of the red cross. They were waved through to a back room and Seb could tell exactly when he was meant to put his hand in his figurative and literal pocket.

A well timed bribe was as important as a well-placed one -- a generous bribe offered not immediately, but before one was asked, in a casual way, went a great deal further, Seb had learned. He continued on in Pashto, knowing the swap back to English would be hard. "God be with you. I am the Colonel, and this is my doctor. We look forward to travelling with you. Before we go, is there anyone in the house who could use medical treatment? Antibiotics?" He asked it while pulling out his wallet.

There was immediate agreement there and John was there, having understood that much and handing out the small packets and explaining it was good for infected wounds and they must take the full course should it happen or the infection might regain strength and fight back. When it came to medicine, John was very fluent.

"I am Farrin, and I will be your guide," an improbably young looking Afghan man introduced himself. "We will take you and your doctor when night falls. Until then, there are those of us who need a doctor and we will eat."

Seb set the secondary ruck down, and then started to ease his own off. Standing upright without that weight was almost a relief, though he was going to have to keep an eye on it. "Thank you. John is an excellent Doctor." And the room was a low buzz of activity, as they began to arrange the floor for the meal.

John was kept busy, checking out old injuries and ailments. Giving advice and he really would have to bear in mind how swiftly a doctor could make a rapport because they were letting him doing things after the first volunteer had been professionally dealt with, in front of everyone, that would have taken him weeks to get to that stage with them all. 

Dinner turned out to be some sort of rather good savory dish, tasty and satisfying. They'd both been in country long enough that he wasn't worried about screwing up any of the little cultural things, so it went well, carrying on until nightfall. By then, the second ruck was slightly lighter, and Seb had snuck a painkiller that was starting to kick in when he lifted the second ruck on top of his. They made their goodbyes, and Farrin started out into the lead.

He was relieved that the first leg would be by truck, although his back was horrified at the general crappiness of the truck and complete lack of anything remotely resembling shock absorbers. They were headed up into the mountain, driving cheerfully along barely existent trails with no lights and frequently with huge drops first one side of them, and then the other.

The rest of him completely manned up and coped with it through every fucking jolt, holding onto a really fantastically obscene gun that was mounted in the back. If everything went horribly wrong, he was fairly sure he could swing it around and shoot the driver in the head without damaging the engine. John looked deeply relieved by the ride, so he just hung in, jaw set.

They didn't talk much, and when they did it wasn't in English because that might have been seen as trying to conceal something from their escort and they really didn't want that, especially not since they were quite a long way into the mountains with no fucking clue where they were.

It was best to play nice, which kept things quiet. Questions like 'you good' and 'water?' as an offer. That was fine for Seb as they rode, and he slept a little after checking that John was willing to take the shift. Sleeping didn't help, and it was only an hour, but by the time he came around, the truck was easing to a stop.

Time to start walking.

The chill of the night air was always a little surprising after the comparative heat of the day. John commented he was glad they were doing this at night even though he couldn't tell where he was going, as the day was too hot. That brought laughter from their escort, and some comments about their inability to cope with perfectly reasonable weather.

"It's always cold back home. You get used to never seeing sunlight," Seb offered. The hike was at a comfortable, reasonable pace, and he could keep up. John was doing excellently.

"God has forsaken your country," Farrin commented pleasantly. "To take away the face of the sun...tch." He shook his head sorrowfully and then grinned, his teeth white in the moonlit night.

"Believe me, no protest here. I completely agree. We get about three, four weeks a year of sun total?" He glanced back at John.

"In a good year," John said wryly. "Perhaps we could have a little of your sun in exchange for a little of our rain?"

"Hah, Allah sends us the rain we need," Farrin said. He stopped a moment and looked around. "We are nearly there. We have made good time."

Seb looked, too, scanning for anything that seemed out of place. Things could go wrong at any moment, no matter how relaxed he was playing it. "Thanks to your guidance."

"Raham Dil will greet you -- you will be his guest, you and your fine doctor," Farrin said and he was going to have to watch they didn't want to keep John permanently. Loaning was fine, but John was most definitely his. 

Seb could make out what appeared to be rock from a distance, resolving into camouflaged cave entrances. You would have to be closer than a couple of hundred meters to work it out. It was quite clever, and there was no obviously direct route that he could see until Farrin led them to the natural path. 

There was the thing of it, that Seb admired most about the man – Raham Dil lived two lives. One was ostentatiously village elder, man about town, comfortable warlord with a nice two story house and a massive courtyard. The other half of him liked the security of cave complexes, of pretending he was *not* Raham Dil, but rather anyone else in a discussion. He protected himself nicely, and it had taken Seb weeks back when he’d been on his third tour to get to the man and be sure he was actually, indeed, Raham Dil. His predecessor had wasted an awful lot of time trying to make deals with a goat herder dressed up as Raham Dil. There’d been something lacking in the man’s eyes, something wrong about the calluses on his hands. He’d repeated Seb’s questions often, stalling for time while trying to think up an answer. The whole meeting had been wrong, and done with in under two hours only because he was trying to be polite.

And that was why Raham Dil had survived so long as a very effective warlord.

By the time they reached the cave mouth, the pain in the small of his back was ice-pick darting up and down the side of his spine, making his leg hitch a little as if that would help at all; it didn’t. John’s limp looked worse, but hysterically he seemed none the worse for wear, and it did feel good to be outside in familiar-feeling mountains on jagged paths. He had definitely seen that location before, during daylight the last time. 

They were ushered inside, some of the figures on guard known to him and exchanging greetings with bright smiles, probably remembering his generosity the last time he had been with them. There was a little of the same dance to actually get in the room but it helped that he was known personally and was not sending a representative to try and re-establish bonds. Eventually however, they were shown in and Raham Dil was waiting, still up and bright eyed in among the cultivated beard. His appearance belied his activities, Seb knew that but John probably didn't.

"Colonel Moran my friend, God is good to bring us together once more," Raham said greeting him warmly. Their ventures together had usually been very profitable for all those involved and with minimal negative outcome. They hugged, the backslapping easy and congenial, because once again, it was going to be very profitable for Raham and very easy because Seb preferred it that way. 

"It's good to be back! And look at you -- you look as if you have been graced with good fortunes and good health. How is your family?" Seb asked in the general sense, which allowed the man to offer whatever he wished in response. He started to shrug off the packs, moving carefully.

"They are well, another nephew since last we saw each other," he said with evident pride. "This time you bring a friend... A doctor you say? Sit, sit both of you. I will have refreshments brought and then you must rest. Nothing of importance will be done tonight save the reuniting of good friends."

It was best to keep it that way. No sense in rushing anything, particularly since they'd already traveled close enough to the border for one day. He gestured for John to come in closer, to join him, while he sat down in a comfortable cross-legged stance. It was almost a pathetic relief to sit down just then, and the mat buffered them from the cool of the stone and dirt floor. "Doctor Watson was a combat medic before he was discharged due to injury a couple of years ago." Almost three, but there was no need to be precise when he was counting in a foreign language. He put his hand on John's back, smiling easily. "He joined up with me last year, and has been an excellent resource."

"Ah yes, ah yes, a good doctor is an asset indeed. You are welcome Doctor Watson," Raham Dil said and Seb was pleased to note John knew how to respond without giving offense.

"It is an honor to meet you," John answered. "I apologies if my speech is not good. It has been some time since I have been able to practice."

"Then we shall make sure you have opportunity," Raham Dil replied. "A drink now."

It was very easy to fall into a practiced relaxation there -- like an evening working with his peers, but perhaps less stressful. Drinks started with tea, which Seb was grateful for, dark and sweet and familiar. Someone's wife served them, and he didn't give her a second glance, attention focused on Raham and John. Small flatbreads were offered, and Seb responded by bringing candy from a couple of MREs out of his pack. That ended up passed around the room. It wasn't the time to talk business, but personal details, and that had always been a problem for Seb. His life *was* business, and the rest of it didn't stand up to polite conversation, so he drew Raham out, gave him opportunities to brag about his accomplishments over the last three years. They'd talked in passing on the phone, and he'd arranged a few shipments for the man, but there was a difference in face to face dealings.

Raham was a genial host, someone who took the precepts of hospitality seriously, and John made a good audience because he could legitimately go over what was old ground to him and sound impressed. The warlord promised they would talk business when they had rested, and he seemed highly amused at the possibility of appearing to be a hero when they returned.

Like Seb had planned – it worked out nicely for everyone.

* * *

Resting had felt good after the long journey and the caves were surprisingly comfortable. The following day, after they had finally gotten up, and John had surreptitiously kneaded Seb's back into some semblance of a working order, he had spent time doctoring while Seb had lengthy discussions with Raham Dil about the possible source of their person of interest. While he was ingratiating himself by doing a few minor, but necessary procedures, Seb and Raham Dil had come to an agreement that the next stop was Pakistan.

On one of their rest stops on the hike – and hell his physio couldn't complain about him not exercising enough – Farrin was scouting ahead and John seized the moment to ask Seb a few things. "So how do you want to play this?" he asked quietly, still squinting even through his sunglasses at the brightness of the sun.

Seb continued chewing on a piece of beef jerky, and broke a piece off to hold out to John. "We'll be entering this from a position of weakness, without the usual courting games. We just don't have time for that, and I know that by *asking*, we'll probably speed up the process. Then again, we'll know who they're targeting." He took a sip off his camelbak. "I expect it's going to cost me a lot of money."

"Well that's okay,” John sipped at his water. "Who are these guys we are going to investigate?" He stretched his leg painfully and poked at the muscle, squinting at the way ahead.

"They're a Pashtun group. Tribal would be the wrong word, but they're all closely affiliated with each other -- with a criminal preference. They do a lot of murky sorts of work for ISAF, actually." Seb rubbed at the edge of his jaw a little absently. With five days now of beard growth, John didn't really have the heart to tell Seb he'd given himself a bald spot where he habitually did that. "Which makes me wonder what government we're friendly with is trying to kill someone in our government."

"So...we have to work out who it is. Shit." John shrugged. "You know, I don't feel like I'm helping you out much.” He had half thought he could be more useful but he'd done doctoring while Seb handled the tricky bit.

"You are. Trust me, you've bought us more good will than money can buy. You were right about that." He ran a hand through his hair, and then put his hat back on. "And you might be key to this next part."

"If you want me to be key then give me an idea how I'm going to be key?" he suggested. "Damn it."

It got a smile out of Seb, while he looked out over the valley they were edging around. "You play good cop. I'll play slightly out of my head cop."

John snorted. "Fine. But try not to sell me to anyone?" he said as Farrin came back. 

"They are there, we will ride down mountain," he said. "I will meet Yasir with you and then...we leave and wait. You call when you need to return yes?"

"Yes, thank you." Seb started to get to his feet carefully. "It shouldn't take too long, so you won't have to worry about waiting." Not that they were probably going to worry. If John were them, he'd take his time, maybe do a little trading. Farrin looked keen and the sort to try to pick up a little smuggling on his own.

"It is no problem for a friend," Farrin said and gestured. "Up now...”

John pushed himself up, missing his cane which had been left in the ambushed convoy. "We're coming. Some of us are not as young as you."

Seb slapped John lightly on the back, surreptitiously bracing John as he got his better leg under him. "Think of all the resting you can do when we get back to London, John. This, too, shall pass." 

"Yeah, yeah," John dismissed with a grin and they loaded up into an even more rickety vehicle that hurtled down the mountainside and into Pakistan proper.

He fairly well got his revenge on Seb during the ride down, watching him brace himself with every jolt. John was mostly surprised that the country managed to have quite so many white datsun pickup trucks. At least that one didn't have a gun mounted in the truck bed. Ferrin rode along with them, and they crossed the border with old mats thrown over them, and Ferrin chatting with border guards.

The musty smell of the hessian clung even after they pulled the mats back and he could see Seb starting to wind himself back into action. It felt like they had been driving the entire morning, before they reached wherever it was where they were meant to be.

Another unfamiliar location, not quite a village. Nothing so inviting this was a compound that they pulled up to and had to be let into by armed men. Farrin seemed unconcerned and got out talking at a rate that he could barely pick out the name Yasir, who was eventually fetched and they were presented.

"Yasir my friend, this is the Colonel. You have heard me speak of him many times, yes? He is a close friend of Raham Dil, an honorable man." He gestured at them both. "This is his doctor, a good man. He has helped many of us as well."

"Ah yes. Yes, both of you, come inside." It wasn't something he was sure he could trust, but what choice did they have?

Farrin, it seemed, was coming in for the introductions at least and that was good news. He limped in, playing up his pleasant good cop persona so Seb could put his glare on and be suitably intimidating. Seb had a reputation and John was damn sure that he was going to play into it.

"They are wanting information," Farrin said as they got inside, out of sight. "And I said, my good friend Yasir is the man to go to for information. There is nothing in the region that he does not know."

"I'm looking for the people who hired this man." Seb had the picture folded up neatly, laminated, pulled from a cargo pouch on his pants. He said it firmly to Yasir, holding the picture out, and John suspected there were backup copies as well. 

Yasir looked at it and John saw the telltale responses that gave away the fact he recognized the image, tricks that he had learned from Sherlock. "I am not sure," Yasir replied slowly. "It is difficult...to tell, yes."

Pupil dilation was there, all the signs of recognition. Seb nodded as he watched Yasir. "You see, I've got nothing against the people who hired him. I just need to know where he's going next. Do you understand?"

"I can tell you where but I do not know that information," Yasir said. "They would make enemies I do not wish, if they believe I had broken trust." He was laying the reluctance on thick and John realized as 'good cop' he was meant to be the one offering the bribe.

"Honor is without price but the rewards of the just are gifts," he said. "We will take responsibility."

Seb slowly pocketed the picture, expression grim as he kept his face on Yasir. "Quite. We will take all responsibility. All I need is a start point." And all Yasir needed was money.

"Then we shall talk. I may have to deal with out there assistance for some time. Perhaps information could be found without them knowing?" Yasir suggested.

That would be a face saving device for him certainly. "Only if we know where we should find information," John pointed out.

"In an untraceable manner, of course," Seb agreed smoothly. "We can keep this meeting between us. Works best for everyone that way.

"Yes, yes, very good." Yasir seemed much more comfortable about that. "I will tell you, and you will get the information and it will not be known how you got the information."

Seb clapped his hands together, and nodded the smile on his face steady and slightly disturbing from the fact that he'd been holding it since he'd pulled the picture out. "Excellent. Do you have any men who need to be seen to by a doctor while we arrange details of the payment you'll require?"

"You are most generous with your skills," Yasir nodded. "Amir will show you to where our injured recuperate. We will appreciate it."

"I am honored to be trusted with your men’s welfare," John answered and prepared for another round of Extreme House Calls while Seb negotiated. It was very slowly dawning on him they might have just volunteered for a two man mission into an armed compound without back up. Possibly they might have bitten off more than they could chew.

* * *

Seb crouched at the top of the compound wall, holding the ladder steady for John while trying to watch both John's six and his own six. On the bright side, the way down was rappelling gear, and if they weren't leaving through the front door, it didn't really matter what side of the compound wall the ladder was on.

He lived for moments like this, running a high risk op, pushing the boundaries. John was there with him, looking good in his impersonation of black ops. They had the information, they had an approximate positioning. In an ideal world they would get in, see the target, get out and no one would ever know they were there.

Seb never expected an ideal world, but damn, he could hope. The guard was watching the gate at the front of the compound, and no one ran perimeter patrols. There was enough animal noise and motion around the compound to disguise their infiltration. He held a hand out to John, and hauled him up the rest of the way.

They hadn't had time to do the long sort of observation that he would have liked to do, so they were probably going to wing it at some point. John crouched on the top with him as they readied to rappel down. They were in the most concealed place possible. He’d picked the entry point purposefully.

It was all purposeful. He held the rope steady for John, started to ease him down to the dirt. The best part was that they didn't have to talk to work together, which was a relief. No unnecessary orders, just easing John down to the ground and sliding down himself, letting his gloves take the punishment. He'd hand them off to someone once they were on their way back in country. Thinking about it, most of their gear would have to go that way.

They were going to have to do play a role of innocent abducted contractors, and innocent contractors would not have the sort of gear he did. 

The building they were after was on the west quadrant of the compound, and their best bet was to try and get in during the salah prayers at nightfall, as Yasir had indicated there was a truly devout Islamic leaning in their target.

It gave him a context. All they had to do was get in, and that meant walking quietly, staying to cover as they picked their way through to the west quadrant. He would've moved faster, more recklessly if he'd been alone. But John brought purposeful caution to his movements. It was probably for the best. Seb didn't take chances because he didn't want John hurt. They slid down gently, and tried to blend into the shadows and creep into position. They wouldn't have long once the prayers started so they needed to be outside of the building ready to go in, get into a lock box if necessary, and then get the hell out of there.

Seb was pretty much ready to throw the lock box into his ruck and get into it later, on the other side of the border – let Raham Dil benefit from the rest of the information. He counted, waiting for the prayers to start, and then nodded to John. Not that he needed to. John was quite quick on the uptake, but Seb preferred to lead the entry into the back of the building. Quiet, which was against what he tended to do. He wasn’t a cat burglar, and when he broke into a room he generally wanted all occupants to know that now was the time to surrender because they were completely overmatched.

Even if it was just him by himself, he still wanted to give the impression of overmatch. 

It was true what they said about an extra layer of intimacy saving lives. They didn't have to talk, they just moved as a unit, knowing how the other one would move. Seb wasn't particularly used to having someone watch his back, but it was a good feeling. Also the stress of having to watch someone else’s was something he was readjusting to. With the adrenalin running, John's limp had faded to a bare hitch in his stride, though he would no doubt feel it later.

They found a nook and pressed themselves in there, within easy distance of an entrance to the target building, and they waited there, stilling their breathing for the call to prayer to go up. A minimal contingent would be left on duty to do theirs after the first group but they could deal with that. 

That minimal contingent wasn't a threat as long as they didn't sound an alarm. Seb waited, listening to the familiar sounds of the call. He gave it two repetitions, before he gestured to John to follow him as he moved out. There wasn't time to waste, because by the time the first group ended, he and John needed to be back over that compound wall, or at least well hidden for the fray that might follow. They started towards the building, to the open back entrance that was letting air breeze through the downstairs.

They made careful progress, Seb leading the way, John with gun drawn watching their back. He was ready for something to go wrong at any moment - half wanting it to go wrong because there was nothing like cutting loose in a whirl of violence and destructions. Corridor, corridor, left turn, office...

Office. Seb stepped inside, scanning the corners with a careful gaze as he stepped forward. It wasn't organized, stacks of paper, stacks of DVDs, and then there was the lockbox he'd been told about. Seb dropped to one knee, broke the lockbox lock, and started to shovel stuff into his ruck, because he just didn’t have time to sort and take time and *read* Pashto dialects.

John was alternately grabbing some and watching the doorway and corridor. They arranged to spend a limited time in there and John was time keeping, starting a whispering countdown from 20 seconds.

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1... Let’s get the hell out of here," John said grabbing a few more things

Seb zipped his ruck shut, and shouldered it quickly, tapping John on the arm and taking the lead through the door again. There was nothing to do but run, taking the stairs as quietly as possible, waiting at the bottom for John, pressed up against the wall. They had to volley to get out of the house, Seb going first, John following while he prepared to provide cover.

He could still hear the final section of the prayers being called and they were going to have to push it hard to get out clean. He sped up the pace, darting shadow, to shadow with John following on behind. It was harder with the rucksack full of material but he kept the pace up, aiming for their exit point.

All he had to do was keep on his feet and moving fast until they got back there, over the wall and moving, They managed to get out of the building at a decent pace, and then back across the other building, leapfrogging from cover point to cover point until they reached their entry point and the robe to climb back up. Seb started up the rope first, because he'd be able to haul John up if it became an issue.

They made it back to where their rappel ropes were still hanging like thin black lines etched in shadow, and started to climb as silently as possible. The urge to scramble was immense because they were half way up the wall when the prayers had finished.

It was better to move quietly and steadily, rather than give the game away and get caught for making noise. Seb reached the top sooner, quickly winding up his line before starting to pull John's in. Just another couple of inches, and John could haul himself up.

Another couple of inches and this would be a text book operation -- at least it would when they got to the vehicle waiting for them. John scrabbled over the top, just as they could hear a commotion over in the building they had pilfered. They hadn't been spotted, but it would be a matter of seconds. They needed to risk jumping down.

Seb nodded to John, and took the first leap, mostly focused on getting further out in case John was right beside him. He hit hard, halfway rolling. 

John hit the ground, his leg buckling under him making for a very inelegant face-plant into the dust. "Fuck..." he hissed, pushing himself up. "Goddammit..." He had to clutch at Seb to steady himself.

He kept an arm around John, starting to haul him forward. "Shhh." He'd haul him forward if he had to, dragging him. He just hoped it didn't come to that.

John could manage a strange sort of hopping run, gritting his teeth and trying to keep up. The disturbance in the compound was reaching a crescendo. The truck was tucked in a corner, and John literally flung himself in the back. Seb hopped in, gesturing wildly to the driver to take off. "Go, go!"

They pulled out rapidly, disappearing into the rat run of streets. John started laughing. "I can't fucking believe I nearly blew a perfect op with a twisted ankle."

Seb crouched close to John, trying to catch his breath. "Is it twisted?"

"Yeah, not bad though," John answered. "I was convinced we were going to get busted in the middle of the compound." He looked as high as a kite on the adrenalin.

Seb closed his eyes, stretching out in the truck bed. "Nah, I knew we'd make it. We had to. Jesus."

"You think we can get Farrin or Yasir to help us translate? I'm not that good at reading this sort of thing," John said. "I hope to hell the info is in there."

"Has to be." It was entirely possible that they weren't even the people who'd hired their guy. Still, Seb was sure he could turn something to their advantage. "Raham, I've known him longer. He won't burn us on the deal." 

"Farrin driving us all the way up?" John asked, looking at his ankle, and trying to do a swift bandage around it to give it support.

Seb looked to the driver's seat, and nodded sharply, settling back in. "Let's cover up and hope we're over the border soon. Your ankle all right?"

"Yeah, no problem," John replied. "When we're 'rescued' and home...I think we should sleep for a week."

"Fuck yes. Except that's not going to happen. You realize the timeline on this, whatever this is, probably just soared through the roof, right?" He started to pull the bags over them to hide. "But that's what the sat phone's for."

"Yeah, I know,” John admitted. "But at least now they stand a chance of blowing it.” He lay back with a smile as they got covered up, and under the covers, maybe by accident, maybe design, and John’s fingers overlapped with his own.

* * *

They didn't reach the caves until late the following morning; driving in the dark, hiking *that* path in the dark was, Farrin said, a death sentence. So they slept, just over the border, until just before dawn. His ankle was killing him, and Seb was moving stiffly again by the time they reached sanctuary again.

It was funny to have a cave feel like a sanctuary, but there was fresh tea to drink and bread, and he could rest a little while Seb and Raham Dil poured over everything they'd stolen.

John could read some, enough to pick out the rubbish and put it to one side -- just in case it was wrong -- while Seb and Raham Dil picked over everything that looked pertinent. Their main problem came from the fact that whoever was in charge was a paranoid bastard and though they narrowed things down, John had a suspicion they were going to have to decipher the cryptic statements even as they travelled home. John was all too aware that Seb was right. Stealing this information meant they would be stepping up their plans.

Seb's expression was intensely pinched, and he was picking through the paper again. "I, dammit. We know someone in the British Government hired this man to kill someone *else* in the government. But it's all fucking code names!"

"Yes. But within the words are meanings," Raham replied agreeing. "There will be clues in the words chosen. Later, though, you must return? To the rescue."

John agreed by nodding. "We must return as swiftly as possible." They could be back in London this time tomorrow if Mycroft came through with flying them home.

Which was the hope, but hope and reality, well. Seb ran his hand back through his hair, and passed a sheet over to John. "My eyes are fucking crossing, and I'm reading into it too deep."

John took it, frowning hard at the cryptic instructions. They made no real sense, none at all from the casual glance. There were references to chess pieces, including the Pawn takes Knight phrase they recognized and Bishop. Bishop was in play, one section said and then wandered off into rhetoric of it being a path to spiritual glory when a nemesis to them all would be struck down. There were plenty of references to Queen's this and that, which John had to assume was the government. "Could it be the Queen herself?” he suggested. "Or one of the Royals... There was that whole big thing when Prince William was out here."

“Why travel for that if it's the real target?" Seb shrugged as he flipped through a few more sheets. "He comes back and it's easier in country. These people have gone to a lot of trouble to get someone who *never* travels." 

"Mm," John nodded. What would Sherlock do? He'd analyze each bit methodically in two seconds flat and have an answer as swiftly. "So someone is trying to make an assassination look like a terrorist attack?"

"Someone in our own government," Seb agreed, "someone who's working with a codename." And he was looking at John like John could solve it, a bit of hope in his eyes.

Maybe he could but not without thought. "This is going to take me sometime and we need to have our stories straight for the debrief," he said. "And we are leaving in an hour...you might want to let Mycroft know to have transport organized and cleared.”

“Right.” Seb shifted, started to pry the sole off of one of his combat boots. It took John only a second to realize he’d prepped them for smuggling, and it was some kind of compartment. To get the papers back without detection. “Then we’ll take the papers with us and work it when we get home. Raham, it’s been a pleasure as always. You also get to inherit all of our excess gear, and you know, we should probably look like we put up a fight at some point in this.”

"I am sure some of my men will find it a challenge to spar with the famous Colonel," Raham said practically beaming at getting all the high quality gear. "And they will be careful not to injure the doctor too much. Unless you wish to spar yourselves?"

John wasn't entirely sure he was happy about it, but he understood the necessity. "Up to you," he said to Seb.

Seb was eyeing him contemplatively, as he continued to hide away bits of the paperwork. They'd done a fairly good job of hiding that they were anything but business partners, and to shy away from Raham's suggestion might draw question. "Huh. No pulled punches if we do that, then. I mean it. Then I might take on a couple of your men if you've got any who're really eager to end the day spitting teeth," Seb grinned. "Mind, I'll go stand outside and call our contact first."

"We'll go out and rough each other up a bit," John replied. "Although I think Seb has an advantage.” He did, in size, in not having a sprained ankle, in just, well, being Seb. He kept remembering Sherlock wanting him to hit him as a disguise and he did have a hair trigger response sometime. He'd tossed a few people around when they became aggressive in the casualty - one of the reasons they liked him to take that shift.

Seb put his boots back together, and stood up, stopping for a moment to get the sat phone. "I dunno -- lower center of gravity and all." He excused them from Raham's presence, and as soon as he could get a signal, started to dial Mycroft, looking over at John occasionally. The switch to English wasn't completely smooth. 

"Yeah, we're going to be coming down in an hour or two, however long it takes to get down to the valley, give this place a little clearance. We've got something, but I can't make sense of it. Still, it's a start."

John took off his sunglasses -- Farrin was going to end up with them, and figured they would have taken pretty much everything, and was grateful to have been wearing a crappy watch. He handed that over as Seb reiterated the now compressed timescale, and that it might be an idea to shut down anything planned for 24 hours or so.

Seb shrugged off his camelbak, and started to do his own strip off, setting things on the rocks -- sunglasses, wristwatch, which wasn't at all cheap looking, as well as the contents of his pocket, extra clips, zip ties, carabineers. John was squinting against the sun by the time Seb folded his hat into his back pocket, while Seb grinned and stretched his shoulders out.

They were gathering a bit of a group of looky loos by the time John stepped in closer and Seb lifted his eyebrows at him. "Go on, I'll let you get the first punch in."

"I'm not sure I can just... uh, could you at least go for me?" John asked readying his first blow. There was no way he could just go for someone just standing there. He'd pull it without even trying.

Seb laughed, shaking his head. "Christ, fine. I can tell this is going to work real well." John watched Seb exhale seconds before he lunged at John.

The movement was enough to trigger the punch and the feeling of adrenalin. He felt it connect in a glancing blow even as he then tried to get away from Seb by elbowing him and duck around whatever punch he was dealing out. It didn't quite matter that it was Seb after a few blows were exchanged, after Seb slipped backwards and almost fell on his arse, laughing as he got clear of John's reach before circling around to attack again. He aimed low that time, for John's ribs, his shoulder, his hips, injuries that would linger and ache but not really maim. It almost fell into a pattern that he could partially deflect, until Seb aimed for his jaw.

Unfortunately his attempt to block that particular blow ended up with it pushed upwards. It impacted on his nose and eye in a pretty dramatic fashion and he staggered back and then his ankle went over again. For some reason he just couldn't stay down and he lunged at Seb, to get a shoulder in the pit of his stomach.

He heard the air go out of Seb's lungs, lanky body working against him as he folded around John and slammed a fist into John's back to try to get free.

John was too carried away with adrenalin to stop. He had Seb folded up and managed to get him over onto his back and came up to get a good punch in to his jaw, even as he heard the spectators roaring with laughter at the sight of him taking Seb down.

"You laugh it up, one of you is next!" Seb caught then held John's wrist hard, looking a little dazed through the eyes. "Hey, hey. Fuck, I think that's enough, John."

John stopped, breathing hard as he prodded his nose and face. "Ow, yeah, that's going to be convincing in an hour or so."

Slowly, Seb started to release John's wrist. He was carrying on, even as he was visibly steadying himself. He started to take his uniform tunic off, shrugging out of it. "Go sit over there," Seb suggested, gesturing to one of Raham's men to come at him. "I think you're good to go, Doc."

"Yeah," he said limping to onside to sit for a bit. "Now, go look like you were defending your helpless doctor."

"Never mind my helpless doctor rang my bell," Seb offered eyebrows high and expression almost oddly delighted before he turned his attention to the next taker. He hardly hesitated before hitting the man with a vicious blow to his sternum.

John watched him, noticing the speed and dexterity of Seb's moves. Yeah, he'd been pulling punches, and really if anything had just been guilty of underestimating a bit rather than it being any type of genuine advantage. It was a master class in hand to hand.

Seb took two of Raham's men apart, to cheering, hoots and delight, and then waved them off, pressing a hand against his back. "No, no, but thank you. I think I look beaten up enough now."

"Only because you let some through," John said. "So what are we saying to them? They'll debrief us...we've gotta have our stories right."

He stopped to pick up his tunic, shrugging it back on while he caught his breath. "We were snatched in the firefight, and kept blindfolded and under threat until, let's say, last night, our very good allies here came across us and quite honestly recognized me from my prior deployment. As soon as was safe, he brought us back down to the base."

"Do we have any idea who they were? Did we see any of them?" John asked. "Would they have forced me as a doctor to help their wounded?"

"Yes." Seb was clearly more comfortable winging it than John was. "I didn't see any of them. They would've logistically used one of us against the other to get what they wanted -- like medical work." He was pressing thoughtfully at the side of his jaw. "So, you would've seen them."

"They'll want me to describe them. Anyone I should be describing?" Or a picture of them. "Do we actually know who that group was?"

"No bloody clue. And we might've changed hands a time or two. Better to go general. Actually..." He gestured back towards Raham, who was standing in the shade of the cave now. "I'll just see if there's someone we can frame up nicely."

"A photo would be good. I can fake them trying to disguise faces and so on." John said. He was building a scenario. "I can only assume that it would have been out of character for you not to try to escape."

"Completely." Seb was still prodding at his jaw. "So assume I tried to escape constantly. I'll go fuck around with some flex cuffs." He gave John a wave, and started off towards Raham, stopping to pick up the flexcuffs he'd had in a pocket. Watching him cuff his wrists together as he walked was interesting, while John tried to work through a viable scenario.

Seb seemed willing to make it up on the fly. But he could legitimately claim to have been restrained. Part of what he had learned from Sherlock was the story that details told. That it fell apart through details. So he had to think through what details were consistent and make a story to suit. 

He had time to work the story out, to bounce it back and forth with Seb, who'd done a number on himself getting in and out of flexcuffs, twisting his wrists together until they were bruised and bloodied. Then he tore part of his sleeve to wrap it, because John's better medical supplies would've clearly gone elsewhere. The walk took time, and when they reached the transport truck, John was tired and sore and limping hard from his ankle, feeling the injuries from his fight with Seb, even if he had pulled punches.

He took a look at them both. They were consistent with the scenario in his head and he spent some of the journey down the mountain towards the military outpost vividly imagining what had "happened" so he could construct a memory to refer to, rather than create it on the spot. Raham Dil was in his guise as the pro-troops village elder and had dressed to suit.

Getting through the checkpoint took just as much work as John had expected, and they had to offload and be checked, on their knees with their hands behind their heads, with someone trying to get the color and number of the day. All Seb could give was the information from the day they'd been missing, which made sense, but he was belligerent and stressed sounding to an appropriate level.

They accepted that they were themselves, and given the thorough go-over they were getting, John was glad that Seb had used their real information and not some fake persona to hold up in the face of a fake story as well. He knew they would have been reported abducted from the convoy anyway, they would have their ID's from that, with any luck. He was playing a little PTSD -- not hard in the circumstances -- but sitting, staring, distracted, but jumpy as well. He knew it intimately, even as they were allowed access to the military compound.

John wasn't surprised that they were separated almost immediately, taken for medical. They were brusque, precise with him as they photographed him, his injuries, asked him repeatedly if he was all right. And throughout it all, peppered him with questions about himself.

The truth was easy enough to tell. As was their cover story about it being "time" for him to face the place again and Seb arranging it as a short term session through his company. It could be the truth, it felt like the truth up to a point. He accepted the drinks, the time to clean up afterwards and then was put into a room that was pretty much an interrogation room. He knew they were watching him, and it was easy to drop into that zone out near shock reaction.

To just drift there and turn the story over a little and look forward to going home, because he wanted to go home. He missed sleeping in his bed, and he missed hot showers and oh, god.

Harry was going to be so angry.

She was going to take him apart. It was too late to make himself a more heroic part in the story, so she was likely to freak out on him and lock away his pass port. He flinched when the door opened suddenly, not having to feign that reaction.

That was all natural.

"Afternoon, Dr. Watson, I'm LTC Rickard. Feeling up to talking right now?" He was a stocky fellow, but his eyes were bright as he sat down across from John at the table.

"Yeah, yeah I guess," he replied. "Is Seb okay? He kept screwing up his wrists and I… I don't know how close it was to his tendons, but he wouldn't stop pulling at the damn things."

LTC Rickard made sympathetic eyebrows at John as he flicked through his paperwork. "Yes, well. I'll be honest, we're all very glad that you're both back and alive. Your... friend and boss will be fine. Could you just walk me through what happened from the start?"

"Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat. "We were driving up to the base compound and I heard an explosion ahead in the convoy. There was a lot of gunfire and they were manning the guns. I grabbed my kit when they started calling that there would be injuries. I was a field medic when I was out here before and I just... well, I did what I did then. I exited the vehicle...uh, I think it was on the right side. Seb came after me to provide cover. Next thing I know I'm knocked to the ground by him and some sort of mortar is being used. I completely picked the wrong side to get out -- we were sitting targets so he dragged me away from the trucks looking for cover. There was, I think it was a culvert but... after we dropped into it, that turned out to be a really bad idea because a whole group of the attackers came up the culvert on both sides and... Well, that was that really."

"Why didn't you stay with the trucks?" Because his crazy buddy dragged him off. The fact that his partner in crime was documented as unstable did give his story a host of leeway.

"Well, aside from the fact that one of them took a direct hit just behind us, I...Seb seemed to know what he was doing. He pulled me away, and it made sense at the time. Like, even if we weren't the target, standing in front of the target was not going to help."

"Not likely, no." Rickard had a tape recorder on in his pocket, John noticed. "What happened next?"

"They... well, they grabbed us, the ones in the culvert. Seb went a bit crazy, uh.., and I think they were going to kill him and I was desperate to stop them you know, so I was shouting out that I was a doctor, and not to kill my friend. Next thing I know, there was some sort of blindfold or hood on me and hands were tied. Stank whatever it was... and I spent a lot of time stumbling as they pushed us along to a vehicle and well...god only knows which direction we went in," John explained shrugging a little.

"Go on." No prompting, no leading. The man was just giving John plenty of rope to hang himself with if he wanted. 

"Uh, I'm not sure how long a trip it was. There were some people in the back with us... we were lying down." John frowned a little. "It felt like a long time... hours. We stopped briefly...I heard some arguing, I think it was about us because I heard the word for hostages and doctor. I’m not sure what they were doing where we were because Seb tried his first escape then and discovered they were pretty much right on top of us."

"Did you attempt an escape?" It didn't sound too judgmental, which John was expecting. The man was calm and relaxed, and attentive.

"When I heard Seb try, I pitched in but...” He made his voice dip low and a bit ashamed. "No...No I don’t know why, it just didn't, I mean...”

"Not everyone is an escape artist, and it worked out all right for you. Colonel Moran said he knew the individual who you were... handed off to?" Now he was trying to bait.

"Yeah, from one of his tours. I think he owed Seb, from what he said. Certainly they seemed to respect him and he traded for us... A lot. After I patched up their men, they didn't really want the trouble of keeping us."

"Not given that everyone knew we were looking for you. You were lucky to end up in the hands of an ally." LTC Rickard offered him a sheet of blank paper and a pen. "I want you to write down everything you can remember. Take your time. We're going to put you both on a transport back home soon."

"Really?" The relief was not feigned at all. "Yeah, I... I can do that." He started writing and put down everything he could and he almost could remember the events that hadn't happened. 

"Do you get much abduction like this?" he asked in a pause.

"No. In fact, I've never seen anything like this, myself. We had that transport coming through from Pakistan get attacked, and a driver and his translator were snatched. I don't know why they bother. We don't pay ransoms." He tilted his head slightly, watching John. "And we've had a few people end up dead."

"I thought they were going to kill us," John said in a low voice, looking back down to his paper. "I kept thinking Seb would have escaped on his own? But I sprained my ankle when they were pushing us around and I think he didn't take some opportunities. He'd never tell you that, or admit it. But... yeah. I mean, I could have got him killed. They said they'd kill him if I didn't do what they wanted."

There, he was providing a real dimension to the story, a reason why someone with Seb's formidable record hadn't gotten away from a simple snatch and grab.

The LTC nodded, and sat back in the chair. "Just take your time as you write it out. You understand that you're safe now and nothing they said matters."

"I know." He gave a thin smile. "I think I'll have words with my therapist when I get back. Facing fears is one thing if they don't kick your ass again."

LTC Rickard laughed. "Isn't that the truth? I'll get you something to drink. Just take your time." Because John's responses were natural and easy and he was buying it completely.

"Yeah, yeah I'll go over it again," he said. "I'm bound to miss something." He could play it easily and he had to wonder if this was what Sherlock had done when he turn the lies on and off. Built a world that seemed real just long enough to his words rang with the truth. Either way, he had the cover story well established and seemed fragile enough that they would not delay sending them home.

He was playing quietly shattered, hyper vigilant and startling, and it didn't take far for him to reach that. Seb was probably in another room making just as much an impression.

* * *

He’d fallen into the very easy pacing of moment to moment to moment, and no one thought there was a lick of complicity with what had happened in Sebastian Moran. It was too easy to fall back to all of the thoughts and memories that he really worked hard to not fall into. He thought about his brother and his mother and the IED blast and the steady sound of shots from his rifle, about bloody muscle under his fists, about every explosion he’d ever set and every explosion he’d never set, and just sank into it.

He thought about Jim on the roof, let himself really feel it in the way he was usually scared to because it left him jagged for weeks. The whole debrief had really been about letting go and saying things that were true, that he’d been so fucking relieved to get the flex cuffs off of his wrists, because his hands had been a wreck by the time he’d tried the trick with the bootlaces, and Raham Dil remembered him from when he’d done some negotiating with the man’s village with some SOF operators, and it wasn’t at all what he’d planned for John, they’d just thought it would be an adventure, and was John all right?

The problem was holding that frame of mind on the plane ride, and trying to keep it from affecting him. He hadn’t actually foreseen that they’d feel the need to reintegrate the kidnapped contractors back into society, which apparently meant gathering up their families for a handoff at the airport. Seb’d pretty much hoped to go back to the flat, no muss no fuss, and sleep and start again in the morning with Mycroft on whatever there was to do, because they were both honestly run ragged after all of that mess.

Never mind the fact that John could really throw an impressive punch.

It had been a little surprising though he knew John kept fit, and had muscle enough. When he wanted to he really could pack some force behind it. Right now though as they were waiting to get off the plan, he was looking miserable. "It's not like we were hostages very long," he said. "What a load of bollocks. Harry is going to kill me."

"It did take almost a week," Seb pointed out, shoulder to shoulder with John. That was the true meaning to shona ba shona. Even when it wasn't convenient. "If they're going to insist, we can stay at Beck’s tonight. 'S a bit silly. We're grown men."

"I'm not staying at Harry's,” John said. "I'm never going to live this down. I thought we could go home and by the time I saw her, it would just be an unreal anecdote. Right now though, the bruises are just doing their Technicolor impression."

Seb turned a little, reaching his fingers out to touch the edge of John's cheek, where he'd hit him hard. "They are." And their military escort was giving him a perfectly queer look, so Seb ignored it. Fuck, he still felt mental, so who gave a fuck if some captain thought he was?

John gave him a sharp glance and then said blandly. "Ow, careful. Bastards... I'm glad I got my cane back. A least that will help with the walking."

"That's good." Seb sat back with a sigh, staring down at his hands. Fuck, Rebecca was going to have his head, too, but he was fairly sure he could get her over it soon. He desperately wanted a smoke.

The rest of the plane was pretty much emptied out already and finally the military escort got up. “If you would like to come this way, sir... Your families are waiting."

"Mmhm." Seb waited for John to go ahead of him. The only relief was that at least there weren't any bags to concern themselves with. "Thanks." 

John walked to the exit as if he was going to a funeral but they made a fair turn of speed as they made it through to the gate. "John? John! Oh my god!" Harry's voice was unmistakable and shrill as she tried to barge through to get to him. "I don't know whether to thump the pair of you or hug you. You..." she turned on Seb. "I told you to look after him! That was the last thing I said!"

"Harry, calm down will you."

Seb managed to hold the grim sort of smile he'd managed through the trip. "Hey, I got him back in one piece. We're both alive..." 

She rounded on him, though, even as she half embraced John crushingly. "You completely mental bastard. I knew it, I just knew it when I saw you in the coffee shop, you just looked, looked--!"

"Seb?" His sister pushed forward, nowhere near as flamboyantly outrageous as John's sister, but no less concerned. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt? We've been worried sick about you... the kids have been beside themselves about Uncle Seb."

"I'm all right. Slightly busted a rib, didn't actually manage to escape." He put an arm over her, a loose hug, and started to try to shake off the self-induced whatever the fuck was going on in his head. He had his eyes closed, half listening to Harry go on and on. "We're going to have to rescue John shortly. I, uh..." He looked up, and to his surprise didn't see Jeremy back there. No, it was Augustus instead. 

“Sebastian, I am relieved to see you safe," his father said, managing to somehow draw all attention in the room.

"I'm relieved to be safe." Well, that was, what, eight words in a row without an insult, for the first time in four years and change. He kept his arm around Rebecca, looking over his shoulder to John and Harry.

"Of course you must come home and recuperate. I can have the finest doctors available for you." He announced, the very model of solicitude. He could see Becks rolling her eyes. 

"Dad, I've promised the kids they'll see their Uncle, if he wants to stay somewhere."

"Don't be ridiculous Rebecca, he needs somewhere without distractions," their father said.

The fuck. Seb glanced back to Rebecca and his father. "No, I think I need a world of distractions right now. I've spent a week blindfolded and zip tied in caves and the back of trucks. 'Without distraction' sounds like Hell. Hey, can uh. We grab John, and get out of here?"

"I think we might have to, he looks like he is about to erupt," Becks said with a smile.

"Did you not hear what I said? He is coming home with me," Augustus said and Seb was sure he was thinking of the political kudos.

"With all due respect, Dad," Becks said. "You haven't seen him in years. I have. He's my brother, and I'm going to take care of him just like I used to. I don't need your help to do so."

Seb squeezed her slightly, and pulled away. Funny, the last time his father had seen him, at least his fatigues had been clean and squared away. He still felt like a 'rescued' wreck. "You could stay," Seb offered, pulling away to snag John. He was sure it wasn't the last he'd heard from the argument.

"He's coming with me," Harry declared. John had an almost comical despairing look in his eyes that would have been laughable under other circumstances. 

"Harry, please, I love you and don't take this the wrong way but there's a reason I didn't stay with you when I was discharged last time," John said. "We'd kill each other in about ten minutes."

The edges of Seb's mouth pulled a little, while he put a hand on John's arm. "John and I need to talk about a few things. I sort of have a lot of apologies to make."

"You're damn right you do..." Harry started off again. "We've been worried sick! Your sister, how could you do this to her? She worries about you all the time and...”

"Harry?" Becks looked at her. "It's time to shut up now. Seriously. John and Seb will stay at mine over night or as long as they want. Harry, Dad, you are invited to dinner if you want after they've had a bit of time to relax okay? Seb is that okay with you? And you John?"

"You should've joined the army," Seb grinned,” but yeah, that's all right with me. John?" He wanted to just go home, but at least for one night he could play along at traumatized. The reality of what happened was going to have to stay between him, John, and a fucking lot of Afghans.

"Yeah, that sounds good. I just want a decent shower, and something to wear." 

"Oh, well...I went to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was delighted to get you some clothes," Harry said.

"Harry, for that... I could kiss you," John said fervently. 

She smiled a little at that encouragement. "Rebecca suggested it."

Of course she did. Seb pulled away a little, as they all started to walk, feeling, right, a little disconnected and overwhelmed just then, with his father falling into step with the group. He needed to focus on the papers, the nicknames. He needed to get his head together and play through what he knew from the information he still had hidden on himself. 

Right up until he clipped his shoulder but good on a pillar in the airport hallway, and staggered, hissing like an idiot. "Easy," John reached to steady him which was a fucking laugh considering him walking with a cane. "I want a look at that shoulder later." Oh, and there was his father giving John filthy looks.

Excellent. He hadn't had to have that talk with the man in years. "Sure. Well, it's good to be back. I think we've got that out of our systems." Seb rubbed at his shoulder, trying to not feel like an idiot -- they'd gone to a lot of trouble to get information that he wasn't able to connect. And he was good at connecting things, at pulling stuff out of memory and thin air, and fuck.

It was a quiet trip to the parking lot, and the vehicles everyone had arrived in.

"You're with me," Becks said to the pair of them. "Dad, Harry... Dinner will be in a few hours if you want to turn up then okay?

"Yep, I'll be there." Dirty looks at Seb, and probably another argument with John to come -- Harry at least waved when she left.

His father looked grim, and determined, but seemed to accept it, which Seb filed away as meaning that he was going to at least have a really blowout shouting match with the man later. And there he'd been afraid he wouldn't have another argument with him before old age and high blood pressure claimed him. It was almost like things were coming up roses. 

It left he and John to pile into the back seat, where Seb leaned his head against the seat rest and exhaled hard while John settled in beside him. "Thanks."

An arm crept around him, low and out of obvious sight. "Thank god that's over," John murmured. "You're not okay are you?"

If it weren't for the seatbelt, he would've slid over in the seat. As it was they were vaguely bucket seats even in the back and it just wasn't viable. "Not really. It'll settle." It always did, and really, it was his own fucking fault for doing that to his head, self fucking induction because the story and the reality overlapped like waves on a nice beach. "I'm more pissed than anything."

"When we get home...” John said. "I'll... make sure it goes away." It was a promise, a real, if quiet and understated one.

It startled a soft, quiet laugh out of him. He wasn't sure what John was promising or even what John thought he was promising, but just the thought of getting home was all right by him. They'd have to stay the night with his sister -- he had a nagging feeling the military might come by the next day just to check up on them, because they wanted to avoid any really horrible scandalous outcomes as well. "How's your ankle?"

"Swelling's going down," John said. "Really I'm not bad at all. Just a bit stiff and sore." He was looking at him and smiling. "Hey, we made it out."

"Yeah. Still, not quite to plan." He lifted his eyebrows at John, because the lurking disappointment of still not having enough to go on was maddening. He'd told Mycroft what they knew, and it was so close, but so fucking far at the same time.

Maybe if they were lucky, Mycroft would have one of his folks intercept them and shake Seb down for the papers. Then again, if it was a trust issue... 

Huh. If he was afraid that someone in the government was a mole, then he already halfway knew what he and John had just reassured themselves with the documents.

They were going to have to move fast and that seemed like an impossible task right now. John patted him gently on his unhurt shoulder. "Very few things do go to plan."

“One day, one'll survive contact with reality and surprise the shit out of me." He glanced up to the rear view mirror, caught his sister watching them. They both really did need long showers -- the quick rinse back at the base didn't really do much more than get the first layer of dirt off.

"Yeah," John grinned a little. "I call the first shower. The kids will want to see you." That was an understatement. He'd be lucky to have any peace and quiet at all until they went to bed.

Still, not all bad. Seb closed his eyes, focusing on John's hand through the fabric of his fatigues for the rest of the drive.

Rebecca was quiet, letting them talk among themselves and not talk. They were there soon, and there were hugs from Jeremy and the kids. Thomas declared that he smelled, and that prompted John up to the guest room and the guest bathroom. Seb was really just running on movement, momentum, and the urge to join John in the shower was immense. So of course, Rebecca grabbed him instead, and he watched John go up the stairs a little distractedly. A week was a hell of a long time to go without taking a little relaxation.

"You are definitely next," Rebecca said. "Tommy is right, you do stink... and just because Uncle Sebastian hasn't had a bath for a week does not mean that you can Tom."

"Awww," Tom looked put out by that. "You and Uncle John have bruises. Lots of them. "

"Me and Uncle John got kidnapped by terrorists. Then we got rescued by Afghan nationals. It was kind of a long week." He said it all with a pleasant enough voice, eyebrows raised. "Hey, maybe your mom'll let me show you how to get out of flexcuffs tomorrow. I know I could use the practice myself."

"Uh, probably not the best idea, Seb," Becks said. "I've got a roast on, hope that's okay. Louise can you set the table? We'll need places for Uncle John and Uncle Seb and two others... We'll have to eat in the other room."

"Ugh, I hate the formal dining room. C'mon, Tom." Louise wasn't going to suffer setting the table by herself, but except for scuffing his shoes on the floor as he walked, Tom didn't put up much of a fight. Seb couldn't remember what he would've done at that age in response to an order like that.

Seb waited until they were gone, and looked sideways at his sister. "So."

"You are in so much trouble," Rebecca said. "And more to the point, I know enough to know that the whole therapy thing was complete bollocks."

Occasionally he forgot who his sister worked for. They had been unnecessarily discrete in the car.

Habit at that point, Seb supposed. He closed his eyes, leaning back against a bit of furniture that probably didn't cost as much money as it looked like. Kids were shit on furniture. "Oh yeah. Completely bollocks. But, I still fucking reek." He held his hands up, and his shirt sleeves slipped down. "I look like a suicide gone bad, and our week really did suck in ways I can't quite explain."

"You are going to explain it... Some time. But not right now," Rebecca said. "Mycroft will talk to you tonight. He's got a heavy schedule coming up tomorrow what with the Diamond Jubilee festivities starting off. It's a bit of a nightmare really; it's going on for months in some ways."

"Better him than me. He is calling me or am I calling him?" He kept himself focused on her, didn't look up the stairs again, though it was itching at him. In a lot of ways, Jim had left a permanent trench in his habits, and it hadn't really faded.

"After dinner. Whoever gets there first. But you will be eating first," Becks said firmly. "I nearly had a panic attack in the middle of work when the report came in that you were under attack."

"Yeah, they had pretty good aim with those fucking mortars. I'm glad I did the paranoid thing and got in the same vehicle as John." And all told, they'd probably hiked thirty, forty miles. He was glad he'd had his most comfortable boots through it all.

"Try not to swear like that in front of the kids," she said absently. "So how did you get so roughed up?"

He finally did look away, craning a little to see if he could see what the kids were doing, or hear John upstairs, or anything else. Seb gave a tsk noise. "Don't make me make you complicit in this, Becks. I just need to talk to Mycroft."

"Fine..." she exhaled. "I should be used to you being in danger by now. For all I know you've been in worse."

"Didn't even have to get off the sofa to get worse danger before." He exhaled, too, pulling a smile. "Going back there was harder than I expected. Easier, too, though I don't think we're ever being let back into the AO. It was good having John there. He's bloody impressive."

"Oh yes? How so?" she asked even as she puttered about with pots and chopping vegetables. "Roast parsnips as well as roast potatoes?"

"You could roast shoe leather and I think I'd eat it. I've been living off of flat bread and jerky." He shifted his hands, feeling the edge he was sitting on. Fiberboard furniture, hah. "I get up to this sort of shit pretty regularly. But John just stepped back into it like he was coming back from two weeks leave. We must've hiked thirty, forty miles? Just endless walking, all of that medical administration, he never stopped, never complained. He was just brilliant. He caught up on his Pashto quick, too. Never missed a beat."

"Even with his leg?” Becks frowned. "Hiking up and down mountains like that?"

"It's psychosomatic." Seb gave a shrug of his shoulders, watching her frown. "His hands shake sometimes, too. I'm really the last fucking person to throw stones." He still didn't feel very steady, but being back in England was nice. It was certainly better than whatever the fuck he'd been thinking when he'd ended up on the rooftop and scared the shit out of John when he'd gotten back from Peru. 

"Huh." She nodded a little. "Does John like Yorkshire puddings? It's roast beef so we have to have them." She smiled a little. "I forget he was a soldier, too, sometimes. It's the jumpers I think."

"I fall for it too, sometimes. The mystical aura of the jumper." Seb rubbed at the edge of his jaw, pressing the bruise John had left. His fingers felt the bizarre bald streak against the edge of his jaw too. "I need to shave."

"You really do. And scrub the desert out of your skin." His sister smiled. "When you are more fragrant, I will give you a proper hug. Oh… there, I think I hear John is out of the shower now."

"I'm not hallucinating. You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He shifted off of the table or whatever it was, watching a bit of mirth hit her eyes. Yeah, she did that on purpose.

"Yes." She smiled. "Go on, go on up. I'm sure John will come in search of a cup of tea. He usually does."

"Yeah, well. You'll have to sleep eventually!" He started out of the kitchen, and slowly up the stairs. His leg muscles hated him just then, so John's had to be just as screwed up. But at least they were alive. It was all good.

* * *

A proper shower made all the difference, even if he did look a bit of a sight in the mirror as the bruises were still lurid. They weren't that bad though. Nothing a few nights sleep would not deal with. John shaved, dried off his hair which stuck up everywhere and then got back into his own well-worn clothes with a profound sense of near ecstasy. Then he headed off downstairs.

Ended up passing Seb on the stairs, who patted him on the back of the shoulder and offered, "She set us up," before continuing up the stairs.

Who 'she' was was easy to guess, since walking down the hallway and into the kitchen revealed Rebecca moving through the kitchen like a whirlwind.

"Need a hand?" he offered. He made a beeline for the kettle because nowhere outside of England seemed to do a decent cup of tea.

Even if Seb swore he really preferred Afghan tea -- he was clearly touched in the head to believe such a thing. "No, I have a very smooth flow. It looks like a lot of work but it's deceptively simple." She smiled over her shoulder at him. "Sit down. Jeremy's distracting the kids right now, but I'm not sure how much longer he can hold them back."

"Seb said you've set us up," John said looking innocent as he found his way to the teabags, mug and milk. The kettle boiled rapidly and he poked his tea with a spoon to hurry it up before fishing out the bag. Then he sat down gratefully.

"I'm practicing my mastermind skills," she agreed. "And I thought if you started having sex now, you'd never come down for dinner and my father would have a heart attack in the living room. Tom and Louise may not love him as much as they love Jeremy' parents, but I'd still rather not ruin that."

John nearly choked on his cup of tea. "I... Rebecca!" he protested. "I wouldn't, uh..." Well maybe he would, but not right then.

"I believe you." She was still smirking when she turned her back to John, getting another bowl out to mix something together, and eggs. "But Sebastian is shameless and has the sex drive of a teenage boy. Believe me, I've met enough of his boyfriends in unfortunate ways before. Or, I did, before he was discharged."

It was a little weird to think of himself as Seb's boyfriend. "Oh really? Did he have many?" They hadn't really talked about any of that. Not really. It was bad enough with Jim and… well, Sherlock lurking between them.

Rebecca made a humming noise, and was quiet for a moment. "I take it you haven't talked with him about it. He slowed down after he left college. Maybe one or two a year. Seb had an enlisted fellow he was close to during his first two tours in Afghanistan. Then he pinned on full bird and moved units. That was the last one I knew of."

"Oh." John really didn't know what he felt about that. It was a feeling he wasn't sure about, a bit like the feeling he'd had when Irene had been around Sherlock. "Well uh, I'm not sure how serious he is about me. He keeps thinking I don't want him or something."

"You missed him waxing poetic about how brilliant you are," Rebecca noted dryly. It looked like she was whipping up Yorkshire puddings. "He's never had really... excellent self-esteem."

"That I know," John nodded absently. Tea, nectar of the gods. There was something very settling about tea. "Although I could wax poetic about him. I do to his face but he tends to think I'm taking the piss."

"Mmhm, that's my brother." Her voice pitched upwards a little, before she pulled the oven open to pour batter into the hot tin. "I still wonder what the years between his discharge and you did to him."

"Nothing good," John replied, meaning it. "I don't know all that went on in that time." He wasn't sure if he wanted to. "But he is going to therapy... And seems to be making big breakthroughs far quicker than I am."

"God, I've been trying to get him to go to therapy since he was Louise's age. Father was even willing to send him." She stood up, shutting the oven door. "So it was a relief when he joined the army out of college. It gave him a purpose, a direction. Why did you join?"

"Well, to be honest," John shrugged a little. "I wanted to be a surgeon but you know, lifesaving surgery. That's where my skills are, surgery under pressure, rather than the painstaking 8 hour procedures. It's difficult to get experience doing that ... Unless you are in the army. So I joined and, well, I liked it. I liked the army, and being a field medic."

"Because of the excitement?" She leaned against the counter, with everything seemingly in place for dinner. It smelled good, it all smelled good. "Did you at least have fun in Afghanistan this last time?"

John laughed a little. "In some ways. It was weird -- it was like putting on a pair of comfortable shoes or something. But there was a lot of physical work. Seb is... far too good at all of that, he really is. It's, well...”

"It's, well?" She repeated it, asking him to go on in an almost familiar prodding way. "I promise to not use it as blackmail at a later date."

"Yeah, like I believe that. Fine, it's like Seb is fully in himself in those moments of physical challenge. It's where he knows he is worth something, because it's something he can do better than pretty much everyone." John paused. "He's happy."

"Always has been." She smiled at him, and flashed her eyebrows up and back down in that way that made it easier to see how they were related. "He used to run away from home a lot, to go camping. He played football, and then he discovered rugby, god help us. And then he found this job that was nothing but running jumping and climbing trees! And I think he loved it more than he loved any of the boys I ever saw him with." Rebecca pulled out the chair across from John, and sat down.

Yeah, that was about right. John could deal with being second place to a vocation. He'd done it before. Second place to a man that made Seb live in that zone every single goddam second for nearly two years. "Yeah, I think I'm going to have to let him take me hunting sometime."

"No you're not. It's bloody boring sitting in a hide, watching him sit perfectly still." She leaned her elbows on the table. "So, don't start that stupid shit. I think he actually loves you. As you are. He's happier than he's looked in years. He looked horrible when you took me up to your flat to see him. It's like having the old Sebastian back now."

That was oddly comforting that he'd made some level of contribution. John was still a little bit convinced that Seb could have gone to Afghanistan alone and accomplished the mission perfectly well. "Well maybe I'll take him and then sit back and do something else while he sits perfectly still in a hide."

Still, he'd clearly wanted to *share* the adventure, because he'd never said no to John about it. "Take up whittling," Rebecca suggested, getting up again to get her own cup. "We'll use the children's bedtime as an excuse to get rid of the visitors if we have to."

"Seb doesn't talk about your father," John said. "Is he likely to cause a problem?" Harry was just Harry, so wrapped up in herself she was like a tornado of whirling navel gazing.

He knew the first words out of her mouth when she got into the house were going to be "you have no idea how worried I was!" or something like. "They get on like a house on fire." She set her cup down, and filled it with hot water from the kettle. "That's been covered in petrol. And was filled with old newspapers. My father *means* well. He just sees Richard in Sebastian. He sees that Sebastian is smart, and quick, and everything Richard was. Except they were two completely different boys."

John nodded. "What was Richard like?" he asked finally. Seb just didn't talk about him, he only knew about him as the brother who committed suicide.

"Richard was clever, and funny, and quick. And he was... Softer isn't the word I want to use, but I suppose he was. He was very introspective. He liked politics, ran for every class election, volunteered for extra work..." Rebecca swirled her tea bag in the cup. "He was rather delightful to be around." 

"Right," John nodded. "And your father wanted Seb to be a replacement for him?" And that wasn't Seb at all. He had the mind, yes, but his interest was in action.

"After Richard killed himself, yes. I suppose he did. Seb always coasted through school like it was nothing, and then came home covered in mud with this big stupid smile on his face after playing some game with the local kids. I've seen him grin like that after literally getting his teeth handed back to him. Compared to Richard..." She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "It's day and night. And Richard never grew up. He might've been a horrible prick as an adult."

"I doubt it, not with you to keep them in line," John said more than half seriously. A whole family of incredibly bright siblings and no guidance, except a fathers unrealistic expectations.

She fished the bag out, and sighed. "I still wish Seb had come to me when he was discharged. Father got him a banking job, he worked there for a week, and then he disappeared off the grid. Until he showed up with you." Rebecca sat back in her chair, watching John. "I suppose I don't actually have to tell you that if you break his heart, I'll kill you. I wish I could've done something about the last one."

“He's not a problem anymore." Although that wasn't strictly true. He still lurked there, a damaging ghost in Seb's life. "Any heart breaking will never be intentional," he said knowing he couldn't promise never to screw up. They were both too damaged to not do that to each other.

Still, they tried. Seb was funny about things, at turns lingering and then completely oblivious. And John knew he had a pile of issues. That audio tape... "Best I can ask for. So, how are you, since I know neither of you are going to tell me the whole story."

"Stiff, sore, but okay," John replied truthfully enough. "Thinking I should seriously try and up my fitness a bit more otherwise I'll never keep up with Seb."

"He'll drag you out running if you let him. The stupid thing is how he does that, and then lights cigarettes off of each other." There was noise coming down the stairs, the sound of the kids intercepting Seb on the stairs. John could hear him laughing.

"Looks like we've got company," John replied. He was feeling a lot more human now, and he had to say, for all he wanted to be alone with Seb, he did feel more settled for being here in an ordinary atmosphere.

Tea and family talk, and normal clothes, and shoes that weren't boots. It did feel good. Seb came in in jeans and a sort of actually hideous blue white and pink plaid button-down, with Louise bear hugging him. "Oof. Becks, I think this one's trying to get a Yorkshire pudding early." 

"Well they aren't even in the oven yet. They only take ten minutes to rise and Dad and John's sister haven't got here yet...so unless you want to eat raw batter Loopy-Lou, then you're not having anything just yet." Becks said. "Now, does Uncle Seb smell better now?"

"Yes!" Louise announced sniffing Seb theatrically and John grinned at him.

He laughed, and carefully pulled away from Louise. "Hey, run upstairs for me, get your binos. We can go sit in the back yard and catch them before they even get up the drive. Then you'll know exactly when you get Yorkshire puddings." 

John smirked a little as Tom and Louise took off like mad things to hunt for binoculars. "I should have a picture of this for the next time you go on about my jumpers."

Seb looked down at his shirt, pulling a face. "I like this shirt. Can't wear suits all the time. Plus, you haven't gone into the drawers to burn stuff."

“So you're telling me that left to your own devices you revert to plaid?" John teased a little. It was highly amusing to him to see Seb like this. His casual clothes at home were often a higher class of jeans and tops but Harry had obviously selected the stand out shirt with an eye that only a fashion publisher could have.

"Yeah, obviously. Can you imagine if I showed up to work like this?" He grinned loitering beside John's chair. "So, I'll leave you in here then while I entertain the kids. You want a warning when we see them coming up the drive?"

"It won't be long," Becks replied. "Because dinner will be on the table at six whether they are here or not. But yes, let me know. Jer, will you deal with the meat? It's out relaxing on the side and I'll need you to carve it in while."

"Sure, I'll do that that in a bit...and the gravy. Witness I am being given cooking responsibilities that are manly," Jeremy teased his wife back. "Must hack lumps of meat with a big knife." 

John sat back as Seb went to entertain his niece and nephew. "So...uh... are you sure you don’t want me to do anything?" he asked again.

"I'm sure." She watched Seb lope off, and then looked back to John. "The key to a reply good meal is to make it look god awful hard and really, just stick everything in the oven and ignore it. And I'm still it not sure you haven't been eating feral pigeon."

"Do I look like I've lost weight?" John asked rhetorically. Actually, he probably had with all the exercise but not that much.

"Astonishingly not, given that you live with a man who actually tried to convince me that MREs were actually pretty good," Jeremy smirked, waving the cutting knife slightly as he got a pot out for the gravy as well. "Seb cooking had to have kicked in as a survival mechanism."

"He can cook some things really well," John said. "And give him a barbeque and he's in his element. We don't get to do those much at Baker Street."

"Well it's a quarter to, I'm putting the veg on, and the Yorkshires in," Becks announced. "John, do you want to uncork the wine and the champagne. I think the occasion deserves it. Champagne in the fridge and the red is out on the side there."

"More manly tasks," he said with a faint smile. He loved Seb’s family, this part of it at least.

It was easy, and maybe there should've been more yelling. He wasn't sure why Seb would've gone to Moriarty and not home to *that*, when to John it seemed bloody obvious what the better choice was. He hadn't had a choice when he'd gotten back from the war, Harry had been on a bender and had just divorced Clara, and there was just. No support system.

He could hear a door opening on the other side of the house, shutting fast, and then Seb saying to the kids, "Quick, run, run! Your grandfather's coming to scowl about your band class grades!" Tom at least laughed, high pitched and happy, and there was the squeaking of runners on the floor.

"Kids, wash your hands before dinner!" Becks shouted out. "Is that just Dad or Harry as well?"

John wasn't sure if Harry would come. She was in the throes of falling for someone and he half suspected that was the reason why she was making a show of being a good sister. It was a little cynical of him but John had been let down so many times by Harry in the past it was now expected.

He wasn't sure if he was going to be relieved or sad if she didn't show. "Both." Seb was dusting something off of his shirt, the sleeves rolled up. "C'mon, John, suffer with me when the doorbell rings."

"But I'm doing very important things with wine bottles," John protested as he was dragged over. "Okay, okay..."

"Man up, both of you," Becks said. "How bad can it be?"

"I slept drunk on your garage roof the last time," Seb reminded, gently hauling John up by the wrist. "Nice shiner."

"It's only for a couple of hours or so," his sister replied as the doorbell rang. "Go and answer it the pair of you."

"Come on, we could always imagine sacks on our heads if that would help," John suggested.

“I don't think it does," Seb mused rather seriously. He slid his hand across John's back, comfortable between his shoulders. The doorbell rang and he did go stiff. "Jesus, right." It was just opening a door, but Seb still steeled himself for it, pulling a face before he opened it.

Now that John was relaxed and paying attention, Seb's father was just a little shorter than him, and that might've been age that had done that, but his expression was reserved, shuttered and placid in a way that John knew was likely a lie. "Father."

"Hello, you look... considerably better," Augustus said.

"A shower and a shave helped a lot," John put in pleasantly enough.

"Change of clothes help, too," Seb agreed, stepping back. "Becks is just putting the veg in, and..."

"John! Good lord, you look better, and your eye looks worse." Harry stepped into the house just seconds behind Augustus, reaching to hug John in what felt like a massive show.

"And the kids are washing up before dinner. We're in the formal dining room," Seb went on as if he hadn't missed a beat.

"I do wish you wouldn't call her Becks...it makes her sound like that football player or...lager," Augustus said as he moved in.

"I polished it up just for you," he said. "Looks worse than it is."

"It looks horrible," Harry sighed, patting his shoulder like he was a small dog. It didn't quite feel right. "Should you even be standing around like that with your ankle?"

Seb shoved his hands into his jean pockets, lifting his eyebrows as he took a step backwards. "You’re right, I think she'd make a mean football player. Harry, have you formally met my father yet? Lord Augustus Moran, CBe, formerly of the Iranian and Afghani diplomatic missions?"

"Wow, a Lord, hey?" Harry said smiling brightly, much to John's relief as her attention swung on to the other man.

"Indeed, although I'm sure that is hard to believe from meeting my children," he said raising his eyebrows at Seb. "I had fond hopes that Sebastian might follow me into the diplomacy game."

Seb's smile was oddly grim as he shifted in closer to John. "Shame I enjoyed the army more, then. Hey, and look at all the free publicity my company got. Sort of." He nudged John's shoulder gently.

"Mmm, I think it's a pretty good advert that we got away," John replied. "I might be biased about that though. Would you like a drink? Either of you?"

"Juice, water?" Oh, Harry was trying hard, which left John feeling like an ass because he knew it wouldn't last.

"Gin, please." Augustus was giving John another hard look, and Seb nodded, stepping away. 

"I'll get it, then." There went John's attempt to get out of the room. He needed to be more forgiving of Harry, but he did this every time. Gave her the benefit of the doubt and got screwed over because it was all about her. But he had to give her credit when she tried.

Augustus moved to enter the lounge and take a seat and John felt obliged to follow. "I hope they have Gordon's, although I will take Bombay Sapphire of course," Augustus said. He did look oddly out of place in a suburban house no matter how nice it was.

Harry sat down as well, looking like she was trying to think of conversation. Harry could be delightful and charming when she put the effort in with strangers. "So you know about the area that John and Seb were abducted from?" she asked. "Is it very dangerous?"

"Yes. Most of the country is quite dangerous right now, and it varies by season, actually. Now that the weather has taken a turn for the warmer, the fighting season begins. It's hard to fight in the mountains in the winter. I know Sebastian's grasp of the main afghan languages were always strong. We had a Hazari family who kept the house up for us."

"No wonder he was good at talking," John said. "My Pashto was a bit rusty." It had loosened up with practice though.

"So they must have been one of the first raids of the spring," Harry said seriously. "That makes it sound so... cyclical.”

"It is. And it stops when the harvests come in. And yet for a nation which seems to constantly be at war with itself, we've had soldiers come back with reports that the villages they entered thought they were Russians. Never mind that it's been fifteen or twenty years, and that we'd been in country again for five or six years." Oh, excellent. He could probably leave the room and not be noticed, John decided as he sat down.

It was really tempting, right up until Seb came back, holding four glasses rather perilously. "Drinks."

"Thanks," John said. "Your dad is just filling in Harry on Afghanistan. The whole war being in season thing."

"I never really thought of it like that," Harry said. "That it would stop. I thought once it started that was it, it kept going until someone surrendered. Like... a national equivalent of something like arm wrestling. You don't take a break in the middle of that to go and... put the kettle on or something."

"No, but you do take a break in the middle when you can't feel your fucking fingers, and you can't get supplies through the passes." He passed her an orange juice, his father his Gin, and then leaned on the arm of the chair John was sitting in, handing him a glass of wine. "You also take a break when its harvest season, which is important when your village is subsistence. Or selling opium."

"Language Sebastian," his father reproved, even as John took his glass of wine.

"I had to treat a lot of that, opium addiction or respiratory failure. The kids...” John shrugged. "They thought it was something to get a hold of even though they would get in huge trouble."

"That's less of a cultural drugs are bad thing and more of a sort of..." Sebastian took a sip of his own drink, leaning into John from what might've been an awkward position from anyone else. "Don't jack your parent's car. That's really expensive stuff to be wasting on yourself. Not that the ban's been effective. And no one thinks of how useful the stems are for heating the houses in winter."

"I have to say I wouldn't have thought of it," Harry replied. "If they need heat then I guess they will take anything."

"Afghanistan has some very rough areas." John said. "Where the troops rarely get to."

"It gets rough where the troops are, too. We were lucky to end up passed to an ISAF ally who I'd worked with before. He still recognized me." 

"You are pretty unforgettable," John said with a faint smile. Augustus gave them a look.

"I'm still not entirely sure why you made the trip in the first place," Augustus said.

"Undercover boss. Had a couple of slots to be filled on the contract we're subbed to. Have to keep up on that if I ever want to bid as a prime." John's therapy, supposedly, but it made sense for Seb to not be showing anyone's weakness in front of his father. 

"And John needed to go back there for therapy," Harry said brightly. Of course Harry had no qualms in waving any weakness he had around. "He had post traumatic stress."

Seb made a noise in the back of his throat that was almost a groan. "Yeah, didn't go quite to plan. Anyway. Decent outcome, it's good to be home."

It was a relief when Louise came in, peering around the corner at them. "Mum says can you please come to sit up at the table? Dinner is ready."

Saved. John felt for the temporary reprieve. They could make polite comments about the food and that sort of thing.

Dinner was a slow, lingering affair. While Rebecca might not have gone into diplomacy, John could was grateful for her steering conversation, for Jeremy offering commentary about his job, for the kids and the opportunity for Augustus to be a doting grandfather. Seb sat beside John, posture a little stiff, a little too-careful every time he looked at his father, but the man seemed to have the grace to not rip into Seb with the grandkids watching. Harry helped it along, too, bringing up her newest magazine venture.

It was good to not have to talk about himself, John decided, and by dessert, Seb had relaxed a little, knee pressed against John's under the table.

He really really wanted an early night, and they should really be looking at the clues, but he was full, and comfortable. Not too hot or cold and Seb was next to him and things felt pretty damn good. He could see a future like this, as much as he ever allowed himself to think far in advance. The kids got bored and were allowed to run around for a bit, and they kept going to bring their grandfather things to look at, and by extension their Uncle Seb and Uncle John. 

Augustus had a definite look then, when he heard ‘Uncle John.’

He liked being Uncle John -- they were good kids, and he saw them a couple of times a month, which was more often than he saw Harry.

Jeremy herded Tom and Louise up to brush their teeth, while Harry followed Rebecca into the kitchen, asking where she got her recipes from, likely for some business venture. Just the three of them, sitting around the table. Seb leaned back in his chair, nursing a cup of coffee by then. "I appreciate your civility tonight," Seb offered, lifting his eyebrows at his father.

"I have made my feelings plain before," he said looking at Seb. "As you have escaped death… I feel I should attempt discretion."

"And I really do appreciate that. All the shouting in the world doesn't change my mind." He gave a shrug, glancing over at John for a moment. "And Rebecca's done well."

"She has," Augustus said. "But she could have been a high profile diplomat rather than some governmental flunkies’ aide. And you..." He seemed to control himself.

Seb exhaled slowly, and seemed to be controlling the twitch of hand that usually meant he was going to start smoking. "Go on. I bet you can't even figure out where you want to start."

"Do you really have to get in to it?" John asked, the champagne and wine he'd had ruining his usual reserve. "Seriously, we've had a good evening, can't we just leave it that way."

"You don't know anything Dr. Watson. You don't know my son as well as you think you do."

John found that rather inappropriately hilarious. He probably shouldn't have laughed, but he knew enough, knew plenty of dirty secrets. Seb shook his head, running a hand up the back of his head. "Shit. No, I think he does. Good and bad and more bad, and worse. Knows all about my discharge and what I did afterwards."

"I shouldn't expect anything better from your kind," Augustus muttered. "Though I thought you might be less likely to be a gold digger, considering you were more often the dupe rather than the fraud."

It was like a bucket of ice-water tossed over him and John found himself gaping with shock.

Seb gave a shaky exhalation, and took a swig of his coffee. "And that's how my father managed to survive being a diplomat during multiple government overthrows," Seb muttered, smiling with teeth. "So, how much of my story have you put together to be calling John a dupe? I'm curious."

"Enough, " he said shortly. "It wasn’t like he wasn't in the papers with that fraud Sherlock Holmes."

John was one step away from losing it. "Sherlock Holmes was no fraud."

People usually left him alone about that. People, polite people, civilized people, generally just didn't bring it up. Seb pressed his leg against John's a little more firmly under the table. "No, he wasn't. He was brilliant, and the only thing he was guilty of was being a smug prick who caught the attention of a manic asshole who could *not* let it rest."

"Publicly he is a fraud and you are associating with someone who was taken in by him," Augustus said. "You will have no future with him, Sebastian. You can't hope to have any standing when you're with him."

"You're saying I’m not good enough for your son?" John asked incredulously.

After all, he was fairly sure Seb had done some horrible things, and had probably painted mercury on chocolate wrappers to slowly poison two kids, had blown up an embassy in Peru, had shot a man while he walked into the Tube, had... had done just a long list of horrible things that John didn't like to think about, didn’t want to know about, and he wasn't *good* enough?

Seb started to laugh. "Honestly? Christ, if you can say that with a straight face, you really don't know anything about me."

"I know what you *could* be, with the family name behind you," Augustus said getting agitated. "I've said it before! But you insist on throwing it all away on, on… rent boys and playing for attent--"

“*Rent boys*? Seriously? Rent boys? I've never had to pay for sex in my life." Sebastian set his coffee cup down, chuckling a little. "I don't need the family name. I've made my own name, I'm well known where I need to be well known, for what I've done and what I can *do*. I don't need to participate in your crazy nepotistic ladder climbing to nowhere. I could buy and sell you twice, if I wanted to."

"And I should be flattered that you think someone would pay me for it but, actually I'm not," John said and he was gritting his teeth. There was ignorant and then there was *really* special, because either he was an idiot, a rent boy, or a gold digger, apparently, completely disconnected from reality. Never mind that he was a doctor, that he’d served in the fucking army, that he could keep up with *Seb* on a mission across borders, that he’d kept Sherlock Holmes alive against the odds more than once, that…

"But you're going no-where in life. You're not building what you're *capable* of, that man can't--"

Seb surged to his feet, reaching across the table for his father's necktie, still managing to look threatening. He hauled him up and forward just enough to make the old man choke. "Right, I've had it. This conversation is over, do you understand me? John's my partner, and I just hit my limit on your insinuations. There's more going on in this world than you're apparently willing to pay attention to, and I'm proud to not be a fucking waste of space diplomat who managed to drive two out of four family members to kill themselves." His arm tensed, starting to haul him up more. John could see the fabric digging in, going tighter.

"Seb, Seb come on he's not worth it." John reached to take hold of Seb's shoulder, to hold him back. "Seriously, stand down." 

"Fuck. I." He exhaled hard through his nose, and closed his eyes. John could feel the muscle of Seb's shoulder shaking with tension, and he held it, his father looking shocked and infuriated before Seb let go of the necktie just as suddenly as he'd hauled the man up by it. Seb let John pull him back, but sitting down, staying in that room wasn't really a good option just then.

"Okay, you know what... We're going to go upstairs now. It's been a long week and neither of us are at our best and if we stay here a line is going to be crossed. So... let’s just say it's good to be back, I'd like to say it was nice to meet you but actually right now I'm not feeling it so we're going to go upstairs. C'mon Seb."

"Mhm." He wasn't sure if that gesture was a wave or something obscene, but it was easier to pull at Seb's shoulder and doggedly walk him up the stairs. It was a quiet walk up the stairs, and he supposed Harry might or might not pursue them. Heading straight for the guest room was easier.

"John..." Harry stood at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Not now Harry," John said through gritted teeth.

"Don't be like that John," she said taking a step up towards them. Suddenly, irrationally, he was angry.

"If you don't want to me to be like that, then you might want to think about maybe not just sitting there when you brother is being accused of being a gold digger and a rent boy."

And it got Seb to move, finally, twisting a little to look at John. He was still shaking. "Hey. Hey, and we both know you're not, that you're better than probably all of us."

"Rebecca said it was better to stay out of it. I'd rather not get into a fight with an old homophobe..."

"I was going to strangle him. So if you don't mind, we're going to go have quiet time?"

"Okay," Harry said and she had that little sister tone that made him feel guilty. "Just... I wanted to say I was glad you were home."

"Yeah, me too Harry," John said and he could hear Becks voice berating her father in the front room. "We'll talk soon okay. Right now, we're feeling unsociable."

"Mostly my fault." Seb offered it, and John could use that later to ease a little of the guilt, he supposed. Seb tugged at John, just a little. They needed to call Mycroft, discuss the evidence, sleep. God, John wanted to sleep.

John headed into the guest bedroom and very firmly closed the door behind him and Seb. And then locked it. And then pulled a chair over and wedged it under the door handle.

"Just a little unsociable."

Seb finally fished a cigarette out of the back pocket of his jeans, working his shoulders like it might help. "I like the chair under the door knob. That's a nice touch. I'm sorry about that."

"He's a piece of work," John said. "And we've got to deal with Mycroft yet." He sat on the bed weary now.

Seb wandered restlessly over to the window, and cracked it, sitting under it on the floor while he finally lit his cigarette. "Yeah, I'll call him. We can put it on speaker."

John decided he could take this lying down. "Go for it. Not that my brains are working that well, but we might as well get it out the way."

"I figure when things are already going downhill, you might as well stop trying to stand on the brakes." John stretched out on the mattress, crossing his arms. He could hear Seb dialing, speaker already on, and could faintly smell smoke. "Thanks for not letting me kill him."

"Becks would have had to have the carpet cleaned," John said. "That's a lot of fuss. Thought I'd save her."

"Eh, ecru carpet -- bleach and a quick watered down tea wash and it'd be as good as, hello, Mycroft?"

Mycroft’s voice sounded even more like cut glass over speaker phone. "Sebastian and John," Mycroft said. "I do hope you are recovering from your ordeal."

"Well, we're not that bad. I mean, it was only a little roughing up..." John said.

"I was referring to dinner with your respective relatives."

"Made me yearn for getting shot at after climbing the wall of a Pakistani compound. It's much simpler. So, we've hit a bit of a brick wall, but it was useful. Our man was hired by a Pashto group who works with the CIA and MI5. There's a lot of code names in the document, but their funding came from a source *within* the British government." He held the phone up so John could hear it better, and reached to shut the window at the same time, still holding the cigarette.

"Yes, the document is riddled with strange references," Mycroft said. "We have been analyzing the information. The most likely reference to "the jewel in the kingdoms crown” has been debated to be one of the royals. A strike at them is high profile and would have worldwide impact with comparative minimal effort. With the original reference of Queen's 4, I'm afraid we are looking at possibly a multiple royal target... The queen, and the heirs to the throne are the most likely candidate and on the actual Diamond Jubilee they were all scheduled to make a public appearance together. "

"Tell us that the 'were' means it's been called off. I've heard you're busy with something tomorrow. You need to call it off if you can, Mycroft, they're going to step up the timeline after we stole all that data..."

"The event tomorrow does not specifically involve the queen, although one of the Princes and his wife will be making a short walk in public in front of the Palace. It is the official coronation anniversary so there have to be appearances but I will personally be overseeing the security," Mycroft said.

John found himself nodding. "So did you make sense of anything else in there? What was the bit about 'the spider at the heart of our enemies web,’ or was that just hyperbole about Britain in general."

"Most over-used metaphor in human history." Seb shifted up onto his knees, leaning his elbows on the bed as he set the phone on John's chest, looking for something to use as an ashtray.

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "Britain and the Commonwealth have been more effective than people would believe considering the situation. The public do not know the plots and schemes that have been thwarted to date. There would be panic if they did."

"So we know there is a Bishop assassin wanting to have a go at the Royal family, probably scheduled for the national celebration in June initially but they might have moved it forwards."

"A less spectacular but no less effective event is better than having your entire network broken to pieces with no effect at all." Seb put it out in a glass of water, and stayed leaning on the edge of the bed, watching John rather than the phone that he'd set on top of John. 

"Presumably they want the visible splash,” Mycroft said. "Congratulations are in order. Obviously you can't be publicly honored, but I am sure we will find some way to recompense you appropriately."

It was oddly anticlimactic, John thought but he managed a "Yeah, thanks. No problem."

"We'll be in contact if we can work out anything else on our end." Seconds after Seb said that, they both heard the phone disconnect. Seb ended the call and turned the phone off with a shrug, setting it aside. "Well, fuck. I don't feel like that accomplished anything at all. They've got a picture of a guy they can't find and only a vague idea of a target."

"It feels vague and I'm pretty sure those instructions aren't meant to be vague to the people they are sent to," John said. "Let me have a look at the paper again?” He was tired but he wanted another look, because he felt like though they appeared to have the answer, that wasn't all of it.

And Seb sensed it, too. He got up, paced back to the suitcase to get the paper. Everything just bloody hurt now that he'd stopped moving, and sleep, after the wine and the champagne and the good food, sounded excellent. "We're missing something," Seb declared, sitting on the edge of the bed. He started to unbutton the brightly hideous shirt.

John peered at it. "So cryptic, the jewel in the kingdoms crown will fall, struck down by a knight's strong arm of justice. No more will the spider at the heart of our enemies web tangle the path of righteousness. The way shall be cleared. "

"Doesn't sound like the queen or the prince to me. Prime minister, maybe?" Seb shrugged out of his shirt. "You up to just sleeping tonight? I'll be honest, arguing with the old bastard just..."

"Took it out of you. Yeah, I need sleep as well. I've missed just being in the same bed," John said. "That will do me fine. I guess we just pass it to Mycroft."

He set the sheet on the bedside stand, beside the glass of water that now had ash and a cigarette floating in it. Seb quirked a smile, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against John's bottom lip, tasting him. It'd been a very long, very discretion-filled trip, except when Seb had slipped a little while the plane was debarking. "Yeah. And I hope you're not giving that bullshit a second thought."

He was giving it a little bit of a thought, but not too seriously. "No, and you better not be either," he replied. "You don't have to do what he thinks to be successful and more to the point happy."

John felt Seb's jaw muscle twitch under his fingertips when he brought his hand up, sliding back to rub Seb's neck. "Even when I thought I was dying inside, the last year's been the best year I can remember. So, thank you. And you get to pick our next fucking stupid adventure."

"Yeah, it's about time we had a few huh?" John murmured. "I saw you in your element. I wish I'd known you when you were one of our Colonels." And maybe he could have headed off Seb being ripe for the picking by Moriarty. Still, if wishes were fishes, John would’ve had the London aquarium. 

It was good just to be able to hold him, to taste Seb as he kissed his skin. To lay there in comfort and safety, at least physical safety, to relax and feel Seb relax, at least for a little while before they had to take off shoes and John's jumper and push the sheets down. Seb kissed him until they were falling asleep like that and Seb startled himself awake hard enough that their teeth clicked together. That was when John gave up and turned the light off.

There were worse ways to spend an evening.

* * *

The problem with going to sleep at the very late hour of sometime ahead of nine o’clock was that Seb woke up at six, wide fucking awake. He lingered for maybe another twenty minutes, face pressed against John’s shoulder, John’s knee jammed into his thigh. There was a decent chance that John’s arm was numb, pinned awkwardly under him. John was snoring a little, mouth open, and it sounded damn good to Seb. He stretched a little, comfortably folded around John, and warm under the sheets, but it wasn’t enough to keep him there for much longer.

The world moved on, even if he didn’t want it to. Even if he wanted to lay there forever, because good things like that didn’t tend to last long. That was why it was so important to enjoy it. And reach over to fish out his phone from the bedside table, because a picture of John snoring was pretty good blackmail material for later. He didn’t have enough pictures of John, not really, which was a shame because there were days when pictures were proof that it hadn’t all been a damn dream.

So he took a couple, nice clean shots that were only mildly incriminating. He moved the chair from under the doorknob, quietly, picked up his shoes and his shirt, pocketed the phone, and stumbled quietly downstairs to put coffee on and see if his sister was up and if not, shock the shit out of her by making a mess of the kitchen, and fruit-something hotcakes as well.

He was rather good at not fucking that recipe up.

To his surprise Jeremy was the one up although he looked frazzled to say the least and was huddled over his cup of coffee. "Morning," he said with a yawn. "Becca's had to go into work. Mycroft needed her for this royal appearance thing. I'm on kid duty, although they'll probably sleep in this morning. You're up early."

"Sacked out before nine, just after we called Beck's boss. John's still asleep." He stopped just inside the kitchen door to put his shoes on, shrugging into his shirt. The coffee smelled good, so he wandered towards the pot and fished a mug out of the cabinet for himself. "Sorry we just took off mid argument. I figured it was better to do that than to need someone to help me hide a body."

"Becca's been laying down the law," Jeremy said. "She told your father he's not welcome to come here and insult guests. Until he can behave himself he won't be back. We'll take the kids to see him. He was way out of line...I was on the verge of chucking him out but I didn't want to upset Becca. Cereal over there, porridge if you want it. Or you can create devastation like you did last time."

"I was thinking devastation." Seb started with the coffee, though, pouring himself a quick cup. "I don't care if he goes after me. He just needs to leave John alone."

"Mm." Jeremy smiled. "You know they do Civil ceremonies nowadays." It was said in a light teasing sort of tone. Funny, if Jeremy had met Jim he would've said something more along the lines of 'you know, they have medications for that nowadays.' Seb took a sip of his coffee, shaking his head as he turned his back to Jeremy. He needed two bowls, all the eggs in the house, flour, sugar, ricotta... 

Still had no idea how to respond to that, which wasn't how it should've gone in his head. He usually laughed that off, but it didn't feel funny right then, which was telling. He pulled a face at himself as he pulled milk, eggs and cheese out of the fridge. "This is revenge, isn't it? For me being an arse when you were dating Rebecca."

"Pretty much." Jeremy was looking at him from his perch at the table. "That was a joke...even if you both come across as pretty married already. I didn't mean anything by it."

He could hear someone moving around upstairs. Maybe John was up after all.

"I know." It was just that he still felt weird, a bit on the edge, because things had been a rollercoaster and now they were post-adventure. He never made that transition smoothly between day to day crap and running from gunfire. There were voicemails and texts he needed to take care of, people blowing up his phone in his absence. He only glanced over his shoulder at Jeremy, setting out what he needed and starting to crack eggs. "Have you had any problems in your district you need taken care of?"

"We're okay," Jeremy said in a relaxed way. "No problems at the moment." He listened. "Thought might be the kids but it sounds like John is having another shower." He glanced at his watch. "It feels like the crack of dawn but it's after 7 I suppose. Becca should be back after this royal thing... I think it's at 9 to avoid it being heaving." 

"Plenty of time to get the smell of smoke out of the kitchen, and reset the alarms if we have to," Seb quipped, pulling drawers open to find a whisk. John lived in the shower sometimes, but not as often as Jim had and certainly for much better reasons. Fuck, Jim. What the hell was with his head just then, doing a damned compare contrast? He took another sip of his coffee, because he was pretty sure he'd managed to go at least a week without the manic little asshole's memory shadowing him. 

"You would, actually, let me know if you had any gang activity you needed dealt with, wouldn't you?" Never mind that he'd probably already know himself, but the asking was somewhat important. He was fairly sure Jeremy was about to give him a dodgy answer when they both heard the water shut off, and a stumbling noise, or something falling. 

Seb was out of the kitchen like a shot, taking the stairs two at a time before barging into the guest bedroom. What he saw was John hopping around trying to pull on some trousers and looking a bit wild around the eyes as he was flinging on a jumper as if doing it to the countdown of a bomb timer.

"Mycroft!" he blurted out when he saw Seb. It took a moment for Seb to even start processing that, when he’d expected to find John slipped in the tub or something. "It's not the royals, it's Mycroft! Where's the goddamn phone? Shit, I can't find anything..."

Seb pulled his phone out of his pocket as he reached to grab a jacket, dialed Mycroft, which went straight to voicemail; then he sent a text, which probably went straight to a turned off device, though he hoped that the 'You're the target!" and "It's not the prince, it's bloody you!" might get to him. Then he started to dial Rebecca, heading for the door. "I'll get the car going. Shit, no, of course I don't have my car here. I'll go jack Jeremy's." He started down the stairs without hesitation, never mind that he left the guest bedroom door open. "Jeremy! I need your bloody car keys!"

"We'll need some sort of pass... we'll never get in otherwise. See if your sister's got one," John shouted out behind him still wrestling with clothes and shoes and socks.

"Hang on, what do you need my car keys for?" Jeremy said in alarm.

No response from Becks’ phone either. There was probably some secrecy rule. Bloody brilliant. Seb stopped at the bottom of the stairs, while Jeremy hesitated. "John worked out that the target's Mycroft." Not that Jeremy knew what was going on, which, bugger. "Look, Becks is in danger, and her boss. Particularly her boss, and I can't raise either of them on the phone. Where was she going this morning?"

"From here to the office and then to the Palace. They are doing a formal recognition of the anniversary," he said looking confused. "Becca is in danger?"

"Yeah, sort of. Mycroft's the target, but if I were shooting, I'd take a few targets of opportunity, too." He held his hand out for Jeremy's car keys. "Give me your keys and I'll bring it back in one piece."

Jeremy looked torn, obviously wanting to join in to protect his wife but there were the children to look after. "I'll keep trying. Mycroft is the target... got it. Are you sure it's today?"

John came lurching in, dressed at least now. "Found a pass up there, we need to go if this thing is happening first thing. By the time we get there...going to be pushing it."

"It's today," Seb repeated, a little more firmly, catching Jeremy's eyes, ready to stare him down. There was a fix it all mentality with cops, but he honestly didn't want to see his brother in law get shot. At least, not just then, not in those circumstances. "Seriously, keys now or I bust a window and hot wire it."

He handed the keys over and John half ran out to the car without stopping even as Jeremy yelled. "Don't let anything happen to Becca!" behind them.

"I'm so fucking stupid," John was muttering under his breath as he flung the car door open and got in. "It was obvious, and I was too tired and wound up to SEE it last night. Goddamn it! "

Seb was just behind him, and he slid into his seat, starting the engine and throwing on his seatbelt in the same motion. Now wasn't the time to kick themselves. They could do that later, when it didn't or did matter but when there was time for it. He peeled out of the driveway.

"We both were. Hell, Mycroft was, because he's preoccupied with protecting the crown and commonwealth. You have my sister's pass?" 

"A pass at least, don't know if it'll get us anyway," John said they jolted back and screeched out onto the road. "I don't even have a gun! Not that we'll get anywhere near Mycroft with a gun but... dammit how do we deal with that? You got a gun?" 

"Karolis smuggled a sniper into the country," Seb pointed out. He was scanning the road, running through contingency plans because, yeah, that was what he did. They didn't have time to go past the flat, and the streets were generally completely shuttered when that happened. He'd need to find a high point. Why had he never considered the palace for locations? Had to be outside, had to be while they were proceeding in. "I have a nest over by the German-British chamber of commerce. I wish I had the fucking movement plan. The route's an easier place to get them."

"Aside from the fact this person in government *has* to be in Mycroft's area. Maybe in the same department. And if that is the case they can get in, they can bypass or know all the security arrangements," John said urgently. "You know they don't often issue the plans until the last minute. To be sure they had to be on the spot. In the place able to get someone an eye in there or put people in the line of fire."

Right, that was where the insider job part of it all came into play. Seb pressed harder on his accelerator, focused on just getting there. “I need to find a place to shoot the shooter.” And hope that Mycroft hadn’t put any proximity based warnings up attached to him, just in case he ever went rogue. He wouldn’t have put it past the man.

"Then I'll have to focus on trying to get to Mycroft and Becks," John said firmly. "Even if I can create a scene, that might be enough to spook them all, get them to pack up and out of danger. No point me getting a gun, if they see me waving a gun around they'll shoot me on sight." 

"I'll drop you off as close as I can to the gate, then. Let's assume that our inside man will position Mycroft properly for my target to reach him." Then he'd only have seconds, a minute at most, if he was honest, to work the trajectories back, acquire his target, and take the shot himself. 

“If they won't answer the bloody phone then that's the best we can do," he said and grimaced. "I can't believe it. I should have seen this ages ago." 

"How? Developed psychic powers you didn't tell me about?" Seb scanned the road, working out. Shit, he was going to need to exfil appropriately after taking a shot that close to the palace, because every cop known to man was going to swarm the place.

"...I don't know, but it feels too obvious now. How many rifles do you have stashed anyway?" John asked.

That was why it was called hindsight. "Twenty, ish. Not counting the ones in storage. I legitimately collect them, you know, completely licensed." For most of them. Certainly the ones that could be tied to him.

John shook his head with a smile. "Well, if this works, I can't even raise my eyebrows at you can I?" he said. "This could go badly wrong if we get stopped."

"At least we won't get stopped together. Someone has to bail the other one out," Seb pointed out lightly. "Worst comes to worse, I have excellent lawyers."

"That's a relief," John replied, his leg jiggling with suppressed nerves. 

They sped through London in what accounted for record time in what was early morning rush hour, with John getting ever more twitchy as he repeatedly try calling and texting Mycroft as Seb drove.

"So, if this all goes to shit, the backup phone is in the top dresser drawer. Number to unlock it is 1794. Lawyers numbers and all of that's there." No one else in his empire knew enough to pull his fat out of the fryer if it came to it. He shifted in the seat. "All right, one more block."

"I'd offer the same but...uh, I don't have connections like that," John said. "You sure you can find the nest?”

He managed to grin a little as they got closer to their point. "See, now I know you're imagining this more like a squirrel hiding nuts. No, I can find it."

"Well that just proves you know me too well. Okay, don't do anything stupid okay?" John said as he prepared to leap out. "Mind you, this coming from the person who is probably going to embarrass myself on national TV to get Mycroft’s attention."

"Bail money's covered. Go in and get him," Seb offered, slowing down long enough for John to get out. He didn't even have to go far, just to park it out of the way, and then start mounting stairs up the back of the building.

John leaned over and gave him on brief kiss and he was out, running with a bit of a limp but the adrenalin taking over. Now he had to fulfill his part of the bargain. He needed to find the sniper.

He parked another block away and probably only half legally. He jogged quietly there, moving around to the back of the building and keeping an eye on the perimeters, scanning the rooftops. No one ever looked up, not really. It was against human nature.

Three, four stories of rusted up stairs, and then another three of ladder, taking it quickly as he could before he reached the top. He'd hidden that cache under the roof tarping, in a metal box sunk below the roofline under plywood. He didn't have the time to make the unveiling of it neat and tidy.

It was a good rifle; all of his were, and it seemed to relish the opportunity to be out in his hands again. It was strange, though, to be facing another killer. Someone good at their job, a challenge. They would think like he did when it came to the kill, because he was one of the best.

So he settled, laid low, concealing himself partially with the loosened roofing paper. The guy probably had a better view of the target than Seb did, but Seb's position gave him a better view of the area around him, looking out rather than in. 

He needed to scan for vantage points, definitely. But the professional was not likely to have his rifle conveniently poking out. It was a case of spotting the target zone. Through his scope he could see an assembly of press building up in one area. That looked promising.

That looked very promising, because he had a decent shot of that, and up and to the left he could see, fuck, yes. Yes. Mycroft. He twisted slowly from that position, staying on his scope as he scanned. There was no question that their man would have the perfect vantage point. 

Becks was off a little way from him but too damn close. Although he could see the security focused on the point where the Royals would presumably be walking through. Too damn close to time, he needed to spot the shooter. He could hear some sort of commotion and glimpsed a sandy haired head off to the right even as the Royal started their entrance. Dammit, focus, he needed to focus. John was there but the play as already in motion.

Life had been so much fucking easier before he'd started caring again.

He shut his eyes for a moment; exhaled, focused, fucking focused, opened his eyes again and turned back to the city around him, the other buildings, the other high points. Shine, silhouette and movement, that was all he was looking for. His scope was masked well, years of practice, but did their guy cover the shine? Lots of guys didn't, even the pros, because they were fast and thought it interfered. Shine, silhouette and movement, no, that person in a window down there was a person in a window, gawking. Would he shoot through glass or have a crack to lessen variability because all he got was one shot, one shot.

One shot was all Seb was going to need.

One shot, he wouldn't risk glass, so an open window. Open even just a little. That narrowed it down as his eyes swept over and there a glint, a gleam and he zeroed in. The Prince and his wife were in full view and Mycroft was pacing them. Now, it had to be now.

He kept his focus on the glint, burned past it, saw a man with one eye closed, the shape of a gun. Seb shifted his position faintly, aiming for the man's forehead. He inhaled, finger on the trigger, checked everything again, two, three times. Because he only got one shot.

Held his breath and pulled the trigger.

The crack was sharp and he felt the rush of the kill, as the sniper tumbled down, the god like power of life and death and turned to see the effect. Panic, screams and John running, why the hell was he running straight at Mycroft and the Royal, flying tackling them?

He slipped out of his hide, taking the gun apart quickly, taking the stance off of it, and shoving everything into a duffle bag because he needed to not be on a roof just then. It was a long, agonizing ladder climb down, and the stairs were faster for him, because he needed to move move move, and get back to John, or get back to the car, but the pull was there. And then he heard a second concussive crack in the air.

A second shooter. A fucking back up shooter, and he needed to be there, had John been hit? Had any of them? Was Becks safe? Jesus, the ladder had never been so long...

He set his foot on the ground and took off running, back towards the palace, fuck that he didn't have a pass, fuck, fuck everything, there was a second shooter there and he couldn't run for the car, there wasn't any point, because if he'd heard a shot and it hadn't hit, he would've assumed the sniper had missed. He would've assumed it was time for plan b and that the sniper was running already.

Fuck, *fuck*, how had he not thought about that?

The place was going crazy, police and security boiling out everywhere and a shout going up there… there, a suspicious man running, and people were heading towards him and he still couldn't see John. Fuck it, let the asshole escape. He kept heading the other direction, in with the police and security, struggling to get close enough to see --

To, fuck. Fuck! He could see the royals being hustled backwards to safety, and Mycroft standing, dusting his legs off, and then there was the people descended on, fuck. "John!"

Paramedics were pouring in, and he still couldn't get to John and then a shitload of grim face security descended. "Drop your weapon! Now! Hands where we can see them!"

Christ. He put his hands up without much hesitance, and wasn't surprised to get a knee in the back. "Fuck! I work for Holmes -- they shot my friend!"

"You've got a goddam sniper rifle on you, do you think we're stupid? Face down!" They were rattled and all the more dangerous for that.

He could just see an ambulance, people huddled down and... Where was John?

"I shot the first fucking sniper! I -- Christ, Mycroft, what the hell!" He was compliant, though, even as they were slapping cuffs on his wrists, arms twisted up behind his back. Fuck, it was like being in that morgue all over again.

Mycroft was distracted and even as he was hauled up, he could see splatters of blood over Mycroft’s implacable expression. That was enough to make his blood run cold. He could just see through the gaps in the frantically working paramedics an incongruous bit of woolen jumper.

It took an age for Mycroft to seem to focus on him. 

"Is that John? Fuck, is that John?" They were turning him around, walking him, dragging him towards a vehicle, and he fought it then, twisting, because he knew the fucking answer. No one else in that crowd was wearing that damn sweater, they were all dressed to the nines in suits. The only ordinary bloke there was John, and that was John? "Oh god."

He couldn't deal with that, he couldn't with the fact that John was there twisted and broken and maybe... dead. No, his mind shied away from the concept. Less than a couple of hours before he had been taking blackmail photos of John snoring. This... this didn't work.

"Take him to Webster," Mycroft said. "I will be there shortly, when this area is secure."

Now he was fighting it, struggling hard to get back there, because John. And he was getting shoved hard into the car, someone's hand on the back of his head, shoving it down and slamming the door shut behind him while he twisted and worked, because fuck, yes, he could get out of cuffs and he was still flexible enough to get his arms down underneath of himself and around to the front. That was John, that was John injured back there, and it wasn't possible, it wasn't. Not John. Why couldn’t John have just flagged Mycroft down?

"For fucks sake, he's going crazy in here!" one of the officers yelled sounding alarmed.

"Put the bastard out," growled another. "Get him under control and put him out. Why the hell don't we have tasers?"

"Get one of those paramedics over here with a sedative or something," the one in the front said to the person riding shot gun. "Hurry!"

Fuck. He got his hands to the front of him, wrists hurting and slick with blood from the flexcuff wounds and that helped, that really fucking helped, slicking and gritty at the same time, while he twisted sitting upright enough to try the door handle. No, no fucking luck, well fine. They wanted to play that way, fucking fine, he could kick the door open, eyes closed tightly as he jammed both heels against the door, close to the latch. Three, four, five, almost, he could feel it jar loosely under the pressure. John was out there, he had to know what had happened.

"Just, dammit George just stop him doing that -- hold him still. Hold him..." The door opened and a paramedic loomed, his front still covered in blood stains. 

"We need him calm, he's going nuts in here," the driver explained. "Just something to take him down."

"Only because he's hurting himself," the paramedic said leaning over him with a hypodermic.

Oh god, bloodstains. Christ, his heart dropped, seized, and he was still on his back across the back seat of the police car, ready to kick open the door they hadn’t opened yet and all he could think was that was John’s blood and he needed it. It wasn’t supposed to be on someone’s shirt. "No, no, is John still alive? The guy who got shot, is he still alive?" He twisted, trying to dodge the hypodermic, but it didn't help, even with his hands brought up in front of him.

The paramedic hesitated just briefly. "For now," he said before he inserted the needle and there was a stinging sensation in Seb’s arm. He twisted hard that time, and he watched the man lunge backwards while Seb went for the narrow space of that opened side door and fuck that was good shit. He kept trying to go forward, but forward came to him, police shouting again, and it didn’t matter. That was excellent shit, because he got half a step out the door when everything washed out under him.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's a fighter," Becks said soothingly. "He'll get through it, I know he will." But she was looking at Seb when she said it, not at Harry. Sure. Sure, because everything just worked out that way, impossible odds were beaten and goodness came out of shit. And Santa Claus was real, and bullets didn't really hurt. And neither of them needed his shit just then. _He_ didn't need his own shit just then.

He’d been semi-conscious through his processing; groggy and muted down in a way that made Seb angrier and still useless beneath that fog. They’d chained him hand and foot after his stunt in the police car, processed him again. The strip search made sense, and there’d been a bit of an argument of how to get him undressed when they were reluctant to uncuff him. It was different than the last time, when he hadn’t given enough of a fuck to fight back at first, when there wasn’t any reason to fight. He needed to get out, needed to find where they’d taken John, what *hospital* John was at, because John was alive. John Watson *survived*.

When they gave up and just cut his shirt off, he started to laugh because fuck, yeah, it was a hell of an ugly plaid shirt, and he was being accused of taking pot-shots at the royals while wearing a pink and blue plaid shirt. Jim would’ve had a hell of a fucking laugh, so Seb couldn’t really restrain it. That took fucking balls, didn’t it? 

So did the officer, who was muttering about mental clinics and schizophrenics, who decided it’d all go faster if Seb was pinned against the wall by an arm against his neck. Seb kicked viciously at the man’s ankles, because the hobble chains had walking leeway. He was still laughing, struggling while they got his jeans off, checked his pockets, found his phone, Jeremy’s car keys, and wallet. That, Seb supposed, when was when the fun started, when they started to tell each other stories, when they recognized his name, his fucking face. He was never supposed to be recognizable like that.

Never.

They had to un-cuff him to get him dressed in a prison clothes, and Seb whirled groggily on the first person who’d called him a fucking homegrown terrorist. It didn't go particularly well, but he felt better for trying. They were well within their rights to subdue him and they did that before securing him to a chair, and then leaving him there.

It was some time later, after they had let him stew – hours possibly, while he was going out of his mind with worry – before someone came in.

"Sebastian." Mycroft looked still immaculate, still the epitome of the Iceman as he walked into the room. It was notable that there were security guards crowding him now, as well. There hadn't been but the one the last time. "I apologise for the uh... restraints. I understand you have been a bit of a handful, and I have been dealing with the immediate fall out of the assassination attempt. You will be released of course, but please refrain from assaulting everyone in sight."

He gestured to the security guards to release the restraints. They approached him warily, and Seb held still, watching them as they un-cuffed his ankles, the double locks on his wrists. He rubbed at his wrists, over the busted up scabs, not getting up yet, just watching the Iceman. After all, the security still looked scared of him. If they were letting him go, then they'd put it all together. If...

"Where's John?" If it wasn't the answer he wanted, he might just finish Bishop's job off for them. No charge.

"He's still in surgery," Mycroft replied. "I do not know the outcome as yet, but he is in the hands of some of the most capable surgeons in the country."

Still in surgery, *hours* later. Sebastian swallowed back a noise that he was sure he hadn't made in any recent decade, closing his eyes for a moment. It was like being punched in the chest, all spreading burn. "Okay." No, he wasn't going to threaten anyone, he wasn't going to throw threats at Mycroft, even if he wanted to, because it didn't matter. Wouldn't take away the fact that John had been in surgery for *hours*. If John died, all bets were off, fuck them all, he couldn't go through that again, he. He'd tried the play-along-game; he'd almost gone straight, and...

Seb looked up at Mycroft, still not getting out of the chair. "What hospital?"

"Currently St Marks and St John’s," Mycroft replied. "The last reports say that he is still in a critical condition. Rebecca is attending the hospital on mine and your behalf with Harriet, and will let us know any updates immediately." He moved to sit down. "I have now had an opportunity to listen to the phone messages and your involvement has become clear. Unfortunately it was not clear at the time - you rushed forward with a sniper rifle on you just after a shot was taken at what appeared to be Prince William and the Duchess... having just returned from Afghanistan. People leaped to the wrong conclusion. I now have to untangle this mess."

Critical condition, after being operated on for hours. No, that wasn’t good at all, that was horrible. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, jaw clenched. He could see where it was going, could see all of the pieces and he could almost guess what Mycroft was going to say next. “So I’m not free to be released yet.” He leaned back in the chair. It would probably take days, maybe weeks to get everything untangled, depending on how big a blowup that had been. Seb didn’t know, he didn’t usually handle *fixing* the media. He usually fed them lies and walked away. God, where was Kitty Riley when he needed someone to manipulate? 

Probably writing fiction about his lost week in Afghanistan.

"Unfortunately not," Mycroft said. "Partly to control the situation. We captured the other shooter and will be able to reveal him and the evidence from the man you shot. I am afraid we will have to turn you into heroes and that is best done a bit at a time. The media has approached the story with their usual flair for the dramatic and I believe I will have to spin the fact that you were captured in Afghanistan and overheard something that did not seem relevant at the time, but did this morning when you learned about this Jubilee event. There is no point you leaving here until they finish operating on John but I promise you, I will have you out of here by then."

Heroes. Hah, that was worse in a lot of ways, and probably worse still for business. Seb rubbed at the edge of his jaw, still watching Mycroft. There wasn't anything to read under his facial expressions, and Seb didn't have the energy to argue. There was no sense in asking for his cell phone -- he might as well play to the story and continue being out of contact until he was officially released. He wasn't sure any of his decisions would've been calm and rational just then. He'd work out what stories he was going to have to tell, what manipulations he was going to have to do once he knew what he had to work with. "Then you have a lot to take care of. You shouldn't be wasting your time here." 

Mycroft hesitated, and that was unusual in and of itself. "I wanted to extend my gratitude for your part in saving my life. Although it would appear to the public that you were protecting the Royals, I have to agree that it appears I was the target. "

A young man entered with some folded up clothes and medical supplies.

"I have taken the liberty of supplying new clothes -- yours will be forensic evidence, unfortunately. We have already taken some samples for the investigation from you so you are free to follow my assistant to have a shower and treat yourself if you wish and then I will arrange transportation to St Marks and St John's for you."

"Fine." He'd missed the second shooter. There was always a secondary, he should have remembered that, why hadn't he remembered that? There was always a secondary, that was what professionals did. The first one was there to either make the strike and the second was there to get the first responders, the panicked crowd, or in case the first one had failed. 

He managed to stand, rubbing a hand across his forehead. When the hell had he hit his head, and where was the blood coming from? When they'd sedated him in the street? Christ. Seb nodded at the assistant. "Then lead the way." Because he couldn't stand there and listen to Mycroft go on and thank him because he wasn't welcome. Not really. He didn't care of the man was grateful, it was just good business, it was finishing a mission. It was doing things the right way.

He wanted to be with John, elsewhere, he wanted...

No, best just to take the clothes and the swabs, and antiseptic and butterfly stitches and follow to the shower and just try and shake off his pounding headache.

He was shown into the small facility -- nothing fancy but it would do the job and guards were still present all the time.

It was funny, that they would've gotten a better, less aggressive response from him if he'd been in there alone, but clearly Mycroft wanted security guards there in case he... In case he did what? Snapped? Gave in to the hair trigger feeling that was pushing just behind his ribs, that was sitting behind his eye? 

He stripped out of the sweats they'd managed to get him into, and stepped into the shower, moving mechanically. The hot water did nothing except get the excess blood and grime off of him, re-open a couple of scrapes from their trip into and back out of Afghanistan and Pakistan. His back was killing him, and standing was almost a relief. He cut the water off, wandered out of the shower drying himself, and giving the guards a dirty look while he dressed himself. He wasn't going to bait them, no. He pulled on trousers and started to tend to his injuries before he bothered with the shirt. It was easier to pretend the guards weren't there.

He looked a lot less wild around the edges when he was done. The guards loitered around and when he appeared to be done, one stepped forward. "Mr. Holmes has asked us to escort you to the hospital and ensure the media don't get to you," he said. "We have a car waiting, if you are ready to go?"

He straightened the collar of the button-down they'd given him, and nodded. It was easier to just nod than it was to talk, and they led the way. He supposed it wasn't custody, not quite, when one of them passed him his cell phone once they were outside the doors. Seb absently wondered if they tried to hack into it every time he was in custody or not. Given that he gave Mycroft extensive reports, it was hard to guess.

The escort was thorough, but more grating than his own men were, walking him to what felt like a car made for snatch and grabs, sandwiching him into the middle of the back seat for the drive. Overt security like that drew more attention than it needed, but he supposed that was part of the story, too, that was there for the media to see.

He didn't let himself think of much as they arrived at the hospital, parked in the garage and headed for the elevator. Couldn't, really, just wanted to see if John was alive, still, because if he started thinking then he'd start playing it all over in his head again.

They were bypassing a lot of the press, but just getting to the ICU waiting area was an exercise in dodging media bullets. Fortunately, no press was allowed at all in the ICU area and his "guards" stayed at the entrance to reinforce the hospital security who was looking distinctly overwhelmed at the clamouring hordes. He could see Harry sitting weeping messily in one of the chairs; Becks was standing next to her, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder.

He'd been quiet for so long that it took him a minute to say anything when he walked over to them, and when he did, it wasn't anything polite. It wasn't 'how are you' or 'I'm sorry I pulled John into that madness', but "Any word?"

Becks shook her head. "I think they've finished surgery but we haven't seen anyone to know what the prognosis is," she replied in a low voice. "Harry is... Isn't dealing very well at the moment. How are you? Are you okay? Mycroft explained what they were doing, but uh...”

He gave a muted shrug, looking down at his wrists. "They released me, but I don't know if I'm going back into custody or not." And if he was honest, he hadn't really processed what Mycroft was doing, or where he was in the machination process. Seb needed to sit down and think and work, but his heart wasn't in it just then. "I'm sorry, Harry. I thought I got the only shooter."

She looked at him, her face a messy of puffy tearstained distress and said, "It's not your fault, he's done this all his life, he… he would just run straight into trouble and you couldn't even argue because... It all made sense. I, I don't want to lose him, he's the only family I have, I."

"He's a fighter," Becks said soothingly. "He'll get through it, I know he will." But she was looking at Seb when she said it, not at Harry. 

Sure. Sure, because everything just worked out that way, impossible odds were beaten and goodness came out of shit. And Santa Claus was real, and bullets didn't really hurt. And neither of them needed his shit just then. *He* didn't need his own shit just then.

Seb exhaled, rubbing fingers along the edge of his jaw before he took a back step. "I'll, uh." He gestured loosely to a chair across the room, and started towards it, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He just had to wait, and he was excellent at waiting. As long as no one expected him to talk.

It was at least one coffee run later before the doctor came to see them. He had a serious expression on his face and Harry nearly burst into tears at the sight of him.

"Harriet Watson? You're all here for John Watson?" he said and Becks said, "Yes, all of us," on her behalf.

"I'm Dr. Forester. We've just got John settled into intensive care," he said. "I'm afraid that he is still in critical condition, but he has come through the surgery. You can see him but you might find it shocking to see him hooked up to so many machines, particularly the ventilator."

"Can you tell us how severely he is injured?" Becks asked again.

"I won't lie to you, the prognosis is not good," Dr Forester said. "The bullet struck him through the back, into his right lung and then ricocheted off of the inside of the sternum and deflected downwards fortunately, but left a path of destruction in his internal organs. A slight shift and it would have deflected upwards directly into his heart. The surgery was… complex but with each moment his odds of survival increase."

Christ, that was a pat phrase if Seb had ever heard one. He wondered if Doctors kept a list on the wall and went ‘Ah, I haven’t used this reassuring comment in a while. Let’s try that out!’ He levered himself out of his slouched spot on the other side of the room, moving over toward Becks and Harry. Was there anything else to ask the man? Nothing Seb could think of that would get an honest answer. “Do you know when he’ll wake up?”

There was a definite look of that he should be thinking in terms of "if" rather than when. "It will be most likely be some time. We will keep him under at the moment, until his lungs are recovered enough for him to start breathing on his own. He won't have the energy to fight the machine," Dr Forester said. "You can go in and see him and sit with him. All we ask is that when the doctors and nurses need to see to him you move out of the way. If they tell you to leave you do and no drinks or food should be in there. Use the antibac hand gel every time you enter the area and leave it. Understood?"

The last thing John needed was an infection, and he probably had enough tubes and lines in him that he was prone for it. Seb remembered the kid, Marshall, who'd survived losing a leg above the knee, and half his junk, but succumbed to a central line infection. "Yes." His answer overlapped with Harry's mumble and Becks' agreement.

"Good," the doctor replied. "Follow me."

More than a little numbly, they followed him and even for someone used to combat and war, it was shocking to see John so pale he was nearly looking grey and somehow like a stranger, lying there with tubes and lines, wires and ventilators, IV's while he lay there tangled in the mess of it. 

Harry started to break down again, while Seb crossed his arms over his chest and took it in. Yep, woolly jumper on the grass had been John, he couldn't deny that. John should've just let the bullet hit Mycroft. Hell, the man was tall enough, it would've hit him where? Low on the chest, through and through, maybe taken out his liver, he wasn't really sure of the positioning in that moment because all he'd been thinking was *John*. And there he was.

Unconscious, past unconscious, his chest only rising and falling because there was air being pumped into it. The longer Seb looked, the worse it seemed, and he was afraid to reach out and touch John because antibac or not he was a fucking mess, he'd been pulling up roofing tiles and digging out rifles and fighting tooth and nail with officers. So Seb kept his arms crossed, and his eyes focused on John, committing him to memory.

And he couldn't do the communal whatever the fuck was going on. He couldn't handle Harry's grief and Becks' very solid understandingness, and John sustained by machinery. "Okay." 

Not a damn thing he could do just then, and he needed to leave.

"Seb..." Becks sat Harry down next to John and came over to him. "Are you doing… okay?" She obviously knew how ridiculous it was to say, that but what else could she say? There wasn't anything.

"I, uh." He couldn't have been standing further away from the bed, could he, without actually being in the next bed's area. He bit the side of his tongue between his molars, just to have something to focus on while he looked at John. Fuck, he handled corpses all the time, it was absurd. He'd killed someone just that morning, blown him away, and turned his brains to red mist on the inside of an office building. He'd carried Jim's body off of the roof, empty skull lolling on his shoulder and blood soaking into his jacket. Maybe that was the problem, there was nothing practical he could do. 

"I'm going to go."

"Sebastian..." Becks practically hissed at him in a low and urgent tone. "I know this is hard for you, but you will be coming back. I don't want you going out there and losing yourself because you don't know what else to do. John needs you, and I won't let you walk away from him. Go if you have to, but come back tomorrow. And the day after, because I can't be here all the time, I have a family and Harry has gone to pieces... She won't be here. Do you want John to be alone?"

“No.” He couldn’t stay there, though, couldn’t… Except he needed to. Apparently. Fuck. He rubbed a hand over his face, but didn’t move.

"Go home," Becks said in a quieter voice. "Come back tomorrow. I'll have to make Harry go home sometime later."

"Jeremy has to be scared shitless." And he could delay whatever was lurking at the back of his head long enough to stay a night. He could keep going for another day, and another day, and another day after that. As long as he set it out one day at a time, he was pretty sure he could keep that shit up indefinitely. "Go home, I'll stay."

It took some doing but Harry was finally steered away by Becks after shenamed Seb as John's partner – which was a laugh, except Seb couldn’t really find it fucking funny just then -- with Becks to be added to the equivalent of family. That left him there with John and a myriad of beeps, hisses, pumping noises, flashing lights and... John.

Seb sat down, slouched into the chair, and began to wait.

* * *

_Running, running, eyes focused on a goal oblivious to everything aside from that shot at a strange form of redemption. John drifted in a hazy awareness, under the surface seeing opiate etched images spun from his memory._

_He had to get there, and he was arguing again, arguing with the security as they confiscated his pass, horrified he had managed to get *that* close._

_"Mr. Holmes is going to shit bricks," the ginger haired aide had said and the words made him want to laugh at the thought._

_That would’ve been rich, Mr. Holmes shitting bricks. He started trying to yell for Mycroft, but it wasn't working, no response. It was urgent though, he knew it was urgent. He needed to get past security._

_Everything was hazy and floating and his legs didn't seem to want to work. It was like he looked and he could see Sherlock standing there, arms outstretched about to fall and he knew this was the moment with an unbearable tension. He ran, knowing Seb would do something and then it was Becks there, morphing into Seb and the urge became strong. He couldn't run so he tried to fly..._

_Leap through the air, to catch someone before they fell, to protect someone else..._

_No thought, just instinct.  
_

* * *

The phrase 'going through the motions' had never really struck him quite so hard before that moment. Now, though, now he was feeling it, like he'd felt it after Jim's death. Once had been curious, a haunting feeling; twice was wrenching, gutting, leaving him spilled out on the floor and no fucking clue what to do but to try. It was the waiting that was killing him, waiting for John to wake up, or not. Waiting for infection to set in, waiting for some important organ to fail, waiting. He was going to go right off his hinges if he had to wait much longer.

John had been taken off the ventilator, which was a small miracle, even if there'd been a couple of dicey moments. He was still on oxygen, still wasn't awake, and now Seb didn't want to leave -- but he'd asked Harry to come swap with him for the evening until he came back. It was just a matter of Harry getting there so he could go home, change clothes, shave again, and cut his hair.

Everything else had been curiously unreal. Nurses kept commenting about them being heroes but his world had shrunk to each rise and fall of John's chest and he knew he had let things slip. Now that John was described as "serious" rather than "critical" he could step out, try and pull things back on track.

Try being the main word. "I'll be back later. Going to go placate the wolves." John probably didn't hear a thing, but after two days of smothering all words, he'd started to try talking to John.

He could imagine him say things like, "Yeah, get some milk on the way," so clearly in his head, it was if he had spoken. There was more colour in John now, and he didn't look...well, dead. He'd looked like a corpse, but now he just looked at deaths door. It was an improvement. Harry mostly looked at Seb as they swapped places, and looked sad, which. Seb didn’t know what to do with that. He was shit at comforting people, shit at helping to prop up anyone but himself. It was easier to just nod, wave goodbye, see himself out of the room.

Becks had warned him he was now the hottest must-have interview on the planet and to watch himself.

Which, yeah. Seb understood that Mycroft had worked up some story, and he'd done enough reading to understand it. But he'd stayed to the hospital, and hasn't ventured out since the whole thing had broken. Still. He lingered in the hospital near John's bed for a minute, before leaving in a surge of motion. He needed the shower and change clothes, and shrug into his criminal persona.

They had an escape route that they used, set up by the hospital to get outside to the car. Unfortunately there was a cordon of press everywhere. The moment he set foot out of the ICU, the reporters were on him.

"Colonel Moran! Colonel Moran, how is John? Any improvement?"

"Sebastian! Anything to say to the public?"

"What do you think of being a hero, Mr. Moran?"

He thought it was shit and wasn't worth doing. Instead he kept walking, and after the fifth, sixth question, managed to say, "I'd like you to respect my privacy," as calmly as he could manage, even if none of them had any such plan.

It was like tossing chum in a piranha pool. The crush grew even more intense.

"What do you think of being accused as the assassin Mr. Moran?"

"How does it feel to be having a gay love affair with a hero?"

"When are you going to tell your side of things Colonel?" 

“Have you heard anything about charges being brought for the shooting you committed?”

He kept walking, fishing his keys out. The press was too close, and he wondered at what point it counted as assault when someone got close enough to his face to make him want to snap, and took a picture. His car was too far, still. If he had to run someone down, he wondered if Mycroft would bail him out. "I'm not. I'd like you to -- please back off."

Finally the hospital security moved in, giving him a bit of space to make a swift exit while they threatened the reporters with being completely banned from the place. Not likely to happen.

He had to get his head back in the game, because he needed to be focused, get things done so he could go back to John.

Just go out, reassert that he was in charge, and come back. He needed to repair image with the criminal element, for two separate reasons now. No one seemed to follow him after the hospital, and 221B was oddly vacant by the time he'd parked on another street and walked. It was a relief to just key the fucking door open and hear heels on the stairs. Christ, and him unarmed.

"Colonel Moran?" Oh, he recognized that voice. Jim's favourite journalist patsy. Kitty peered up the stairs. "I knew you'd come home eventually."

"Well, you're a smart one." He closed the front door behind him, and started up the steps slowly, lifting an eyebrow at her. "I'm still not giving you a statement."

"You know, despising the press is a bad idea," she said. "A few statements and I can polish that image of yours, buff out those dark spots."

"I'm sure you can." He started to shrug out of his coat, and stopped in front of her on the stairs. She seemed to think she was actually an effective barricade. "But I'm tired right now, and I need to shave and shower."

"Five minutes… five minutes for an exclusive, or I start asking nasty questions about what you were doing in Afghanistan," Kitty pushed her point. "You might be the nation’s darling but as the former owner of this flat learned...the public is fickle."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and asked, "Is that a *threat*, ma'am? And since you know my name, what's yours?"

"Not a threat, an observation. My name is Kitty Riley, freelance journalist," she replied. "Well respected freelance journalist." Her involvement with Sherlock and 'outing' him as a fraud had made her reputation. She was power dressing all the way and staring him down as if he would be intimidated somehow.

He blinked, slowly, and then gave a shrug as if she'd won. He was all fucked up and feeling every inch of trauma, so it really wasn't a pretending and faking it thing. "All right. Just move so I can get upstairs. Five minutes, start now."

She gave a brilliant smile, getting out her phone to presumably record what he was saying. "Fantastic! Okay, everyone want to know how John Watson is doing? We've got people saying he's really dead already. How is he?"

"Breathing. Serious condition. No, I don't know more than that, and the medical mumbo jumbo goes over my head." He knew all of the phrases and every piece of John's diagnosis, and had looked all of it up on his phone, five, six times, until he caught himself looking for bits of information that were more positive than negative. When he started to actively try to pull one over on himself, it was time to take a break.

He unlocked the door, and reluctantly stepped inside, knowing she was going to be following. It looked like Mrs. Hudson had tidied up. 

"Is he improving?" she asked coming in behind him. "What people want to know is what happened from your perspective. You were in Afghanistan...and then?"

He threw his coat onto the sofa, starting forward to the kitchen to run water. "And then after we were luckily passed to an old ally of mine, we were debriefed and flown home."

"And went to stay at your sister’s...so how did we get from that to a heroic dash to save the Prince?" she asked. "That's what we don't understand."

He shrugged his shoulders, bent over the sink to splash water on his face. "My father was the head of the diplomatic mission in the Afghan before the soviets, well, that mess when they assassinated the head of the American mission? Yeah. So I grew up in Afghanistan, spoke the language pretty well. Went back, did five tours with the army there. I did a lot of listening while we were being passed back and forth. I talked it out with John after dinner with my sister, because he'd heard a few things, too. We went to sleep, and in the morning, it struck John as a bit of a eureka moment. There was a very cryptic phrase about the jewel in the royal crown."

"Right, right." Kitty looked very excited by that. "You heard something that you connected with a possible assassination attempt, a code phrase. So John had a eureka moment and... What happened?"

He poured a glass of water, and took a swig from it, wandering back into the living room to keep a closer eye on her. "Took my brother in law's car keys, and we started off to the event. My sister had mentioned it and that was the other part. She keeps up with those sorts of things for work. I dropped John off near the gate, and drove on to..." He made a circular gesture. "And I went up to a rooftop with my rifle and started to look for the shooter. Because I remembered them saying something about smuggling a sniper into the country. So I blew the guy away and thought, fucking hurrah, right? And then I heard the second shot."

"Your rifle was just handy?" she said, but he could see she was looking at the books on the shelves, noting the ones he had written. Yeah, he could use that.

"It was," he confirmed. "You can check my record -- I'm a gun enthusiast, I _was_ a sniper, and I _am_ a big game hunter. Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas and Three Months in the Jungle describe it pretty well." He started towards the books, pulling them down off the shelf. "I, uh. I'll be honest, since the IED blast, I sort of lost my way with words. Hasn't been the same."

“Right." She noted that down. "Explains the seemingly impossible shot, and why people seemed to think you might be the sniper. Did you see what happened with the second shot?"

"No. I heard it, and I started down the ladder. Of course, they grabbed me as soon as I got close, and I saw John on the ground." He cleared his throat, looking absently down at his books. "Well, I saw his jumper, but since everyone else was in suits, I knew it was John. I, uh." Seb kept his eyes on the books, starting to leaf through them. "Lost it after that, and tried to kick the door open. They sedated me then, and I'm probably lucky I didn't get myself shot, acting like that."

"And what were you thinking?" Kitty asked sympathetically. She did have a way about her, a hunger for a story.

Seb closed the book, pressing his tongue against his teeth. "I thought John was dead. I thought, I." He really wasn't going to think about it, wasn't going to let himself relive it, because he needed to get suited up. "Mhn. I don't know what I'm going to do if he doesn't pull through this."

"You are partners then? Although that much is obvious..." She looked around the living area. "How long have you been together? As a couple?"

"It's a bit complicated. We'd been in the same unit in Afghanistan, and had run into each other the previous year here in London." He shrugged his shoulders, setting his books aside, feeling restless and wondering what there was to be hidden in the place. He had a dog eared copy of Jim's book, but that was in his bedroom. "I moved in after that, well, mess with Sherlock Holmes. John needed a flat mate to help cover the rent. He didn't hold the circumstances of my discharge against me, and I was going through a rough patch."

"I was coming to your discharge," Kitty said. "There are some groups that believe you were victimized for your sexuality. What do you feel about the event that led to you discharge?"

"That had nothing to do with my sexuality, and everything to do with our policies of trusting the host nation _too much_." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "I snapped and nearly beat a police captain to death. Because he was colluding with the enemy. That he died later, well, that was out of my hands, but I *know* he was supporting the Taliban, telling them our routes well in advance of patrols. I lost too many men in the months I worked with that police captain, and when the vehicle, when." Fuck. He pressed his tongue against his teeth. "My driver that day was the best staff sergeant I'd ever had, staff Sergeant Warburg, and he was about to rotate home. If you'd seen what his body looked like after the charge went off right under, under him... I'd had it. Shona ba shona with the ANP -- what a load of shit."

That was obviously reporting gold, from the way Kitty lit up. "So you were traumatized by the experience? What was it like being cut loose by the army after that? How did you readjust?"

"I'm still readjusting," he noted wryly. "I went into business with James Adams, and we started Adams' Defence. I've focused on the work, and keeping the business going after Jim shot himself."

"Ah yes, your previous partner committed suicide tragically," she said oozing sympathy in her voice. It was strange to think that she had known Jim, even if it was as Richard Brook and no one knew in what circumstances he had killed himself. He could tell she was practically rubbing her hands in glee at the story of two wounded soldiers finding solace in each other, vilified by the public, the military and still becoming heroes. "So despite all this you moved to save the Prince and his wife... Why?"

"Because I'm British?" He looked askance at her, and seeming faintly offended was easy and appropriate. "Honestly, you have to ask? They're the royal family. They're *our* Royal Family, and I served in Her Majesty's Armed Forces for over twenty years. I took my oath of allegiance seriously."

It was apparently the right answer, no doubt with the vast sudden protective surge over the mortal peril of the Prince even if he wasn't the real target. "Okay final question as I promised five minutes... What reward do you think you two should have? What do you most want out of this?" 

He squinted at her, and ran a hand back through his hair. Christ he needed a shower. “I want to be left alone? I want my partner to wake up and come _home_ , he’s a bloody surgeon, he shouldn’t be in a hospital bed. John’s a brilliantly decent man, and I’m tired of seeing people speculate about him. He doesn’t _think_ before he does something helpful, he just does it.”

"No royal rewards? A knighthood?" Kitty offered picking up her gear just trying to sneak in one or two extras queries. He had to look pretty intimidating for to back off, or maybe she was trying to protect her exclusive by being "nice". "Many believe you should be honoured in some way..."

"Good for them. I just want to go back to living my life." The agitated hair trigger feeling was rising again, and he was struggling to seem polite the longer she lingered, because he just needed to get through it one day at a time. Just one day, one hour at a time, and as long as he kept moving he wasn't going to break. "Quietly. We're still not, it. Fuck." Oh, that was just lovely, when his words got away from him when he didn't want to play that trick. Nice, he could tell that evening was just going to be a disorganized hell for him. "We just got out of captivity and it, a lot happened that neither of us had time to deal with and now John's been shot. I'm walking a tightrope on a good day, and I don't need people showing up on my doorstop trying to talk to me about what happened when I need to get my head straight to talk to some of the contractors I work with." 

"Okay, okay... Thank you for your time Colonel Moran," she said backing away with a well-honed instinct for self-preservation. She left her card on the table. "If you need to get hold of me, my number is here. I'm sure you'll be pleased at the story."

Then he was left blissfully alone as she escaped down the stairs as if he might go after her with a gun. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, and then shut it firmly, locked it, and picked up his phone to shoot Frank a text to not send the car. He couldn’t risk it just then, crossing wires, getting spotted if people were watching because his folks were about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Just a note that he’d meet them there, he was running slightly behind schedule. Everything was well.

Nothing was actually well, but hell, a man could lie. He headed for the downstairs bedroom, getting out one of the better suits. There wasn’t anything he had to go upstairs to retrieve, which was good because he didn’t really think he could stand there in John’s room and actually get anything done if he had to go in there. Nothing was really catching well in his head, and all he could do was keep moving. Step into the bathroom, shower quickly, shave, trim up his hair because it looked like a ragged mess. Every step he took led right to another step, and that kept him moving. Hopefully Harry had actually stayed with John and not faffed off.

Not that Seb could blame her. 

Seb wasn't sure what he was expecting out of that night. He checked the mirror, decided he looked hard enough, holstered his gun, threw on an overcoat, and headed back down the stairs. There wasn’t any sign of Kitty lurking out there, but who knew who else was watching as he walked to his car and started to drive carefully out of his way, checking that no one was following him. 

Life carried on. It didn't just stop because John Watson was in a coma, no, life carried on even if Seb wanted to demand it to stop. He couldn't manage to get a time out, couldn't get his world to stop, so. Into a den of wolves he didn't want to have to fight down. And how long has it been? Three weeks? Too many weeks of not being there, of being out of touch with his empire, of go go go, of not being able to stop, and every event led to another event strung together in a tight chain until Seb felt like he was choking.

But if he didn't, then the whole thing would collapse inwards like a pack of cards folding one after another, and that would be a firestorm of a different type. The shower made him feel better, if no less tired, and Mrs. Hudson had left him a dinner with a note asking him to let her know how John was doing and when they were accepting more than family visitors.

The reminders were constant but he had to get out there and put a criminal world to rights. He'd handle the backlog of shit on his phone, in his email, later. Face to face came first.

Being in a crisp suit seemed odd after slouching in the hospital, but he tried to get back in the mindset as he started on his first crisis.

Which appeared to be the gathering of faces that turned towards him when he stepped through the door of the club, having parked his car far enough away that it seemed safe. There was Blakemore, the Russians, Irene, Sheppard, McInty, fuck, people he hadn't seen in the longest time, it felt like, and what did he say as he walked into the milling room of people, shrugging out of his overcoat. 

Might as well get the awkwardness right over with. "Well. Missed me, did you?"

"Never took you for a royalist," Blakemore said, getting too close to him for Seb’s comfort just then. "Gone legit have you? Got a fancy knighthood coming your way, full pardon, the whole works?"

"Nothing wrong with the Royals," Irene murmured. "In their place. How is John?"

"Off the ventilator." Which was as positive as he could manage, and as non-committal because he had business to do and people to scare the ever loving shit out of.

He rubbed at the edge of his jaw, moving into the room smoothly while he reached to slap Blakemore on the shoulder. "I'm playing the long game, mate. You should try it once in a while, you might shock yourself. I shot the guy who killed Willie Jenkins. It was beautiful, nothing but red mist at a thousand meters. He never even saw me."

"That was the guy who killed Willie?" Blakemore settled a bit more. It made more sense to them now – he'd made it clear he wasn't happy about that and suddenly this bit of altruism took on a different light. "Shit. Wouldn't want to be the other guy now.”

They were probably expecting an even more extreme retribution on him considering John's condition. Still they were still a bit nervy although Sheppard lounged against a wall and smirked at him before drawling. "Shit, that's a hell of a get out of jail free card being a public hero. Maybe I can arrange to do something for Obama when I get back. The stuff I could get away with then..."

That raised a few laughs and Seb had to admit that was a damn useful comment to drop into the conversation. He wondered how much Sheppard really knew about him. Something to tease out later in conversation. "That second shooter's fucking lucky they've got him so deep in custody I haven't found him. Yet." Which was a true statement, and easy to rattle off, swagger and anger as he signaled to a waiter. "Hey, round of drinks for the house, on me. It's good to be back."

That brought an almost palpable wave of easing of tension around the room as people broke up the unnerving attention. Interestingly it was Irene who sauntered over to him first. "I can't tell if you are spoiling for a fight or you just want to lie down," she murmured. "You spoiled my viewing pleasure. I thought there was going to be a pissing match...if I'd known, I have all manner of clients who pay for that sort of thing."

"What viewing pleasure have I spoiled for you?" He settled into a seating area where he could have his back to a wall, and a good view of everyone around him; if anyone else had been there first, they'd unquestionably yielded the spot to Seb. He could see Frank nearby, and his usual driver, and gave them a nod while he fished a cigarette out of his case. There wasn't any sense in answering her first statement, because he wasn't sure yet himself. Maybe both.

"A whole room full of people trying to decide whether being in charge is actually worth the trouble," she smiled. "It was quite amusing really. It would seem they like someone else stomping out the little fires."

"Well, they're not going to have to decide. I'm back." No house of cards falling down, no power vacuum to consume the city. He lit his cigarette, and flicked his eyes out over to the milling crowd, the other small clusters of power that no one had apparently wanted to flex in his absence. Half of the room wanted to talk to him in a wound up anticipatory way, and he'd have to grin and bear his way through it all. And when it was all done, he could go back to the hospital and sit in the tiny chair beside John's bed and watch him breathe. "What can I do for you, Irene?"

"I really did just want to send my best wishes for John's recovery," she said. "I have become... fond of him. I am glad your research bore fruit but regret the cost." Her dark eyes seemed to hold more in them as if she was message passing somehow.

He was sure it might sink in later, if he found the time to think. He didn’t have the capacity for those really rich sorts of head games just then. As it was, it went to the back of his head, and he shrugged slightly, breathing in smoke instead. “I appreciate it. If you have something urgent come up, send me a text. I’ve been on top of them better than email right now.”

"I'll do that. Now go and hold court," she said. "I have a free drink to claim." She smiled and then moved away from him leaving him open to start working the room properly. It was enough to start considering getting others trained up as deputies.

Or at least giving them a bit of delegation in the ultimate say, though Jim had, well, fuck, he'd been the deputy to handle the other deputies. Shit, maybe it was time to reinstate that, to shift control a little. He'd have to be more wary of assassination attempts, of course. Something to consider, and he held it in his mind as he talked with Blakemore. Not just then, though, or the whole thing might be seen as weakness. There had to be a waiting period to shake them of that idea. Blakemore had ideas and things and little deals he wanted support for, so Sebastian played along, saying yes to the important parts and no to the stupid bits that would get people killed unnecessarily. 

He was on his own second drink by the time Sheppard made his way over.

"Tough few weeks huh?" Sheppard said to him. "Know how that goes. Sat by a few bedsides myself."

And not all of them had been successful. They never were.

Seb lifted his eyebrows at the man, and leaned slightly to gesture to the waiter to bring him another. He might as well just drink until he passed out. It was certainly *an* option, though not one he'd probably appreciate. He leaned his elbows on his knees, watching Sheppard's easy posture. Good for him, good for him managing to not be fucked up by it all, congratulations were in order. Becks would've been proud to have someone with *coping* skills in the family, instead of the brother who had to pep talk himself into staying at the hospital every day. "While, on some level, I appreciate the endless string of condolences, I'd rather not discuss it." Or think about it, or. If John didn't wake up. If John never woke up, yeah, fuck. 

That was the problem with people. They died.

"How's business been?"

"Reasonable," Sheppard replied. "I'm going to head to Egypt soon – see if I can pick something up after all their civil unrest. Wanted to ask if you had anyone reliable there."

"I do. He's an antiquities professor, actually. With unfortunate taste in political parties. I'll contact you at your usual number with his current burn phone?" Just in case Sheppard's number had changed in the last three weeks.

"Yeah, thanks," Sheppard said nodding. "Helps a lot to have someone reliable when you're reaching out for a new line."

"He's stable." Seb snubbed out that cigarette, and started to light another while absently taking a swig of his drink. "John'd mentioned he recognized you as a medivac pilot in Afghanistan."

There was an infinitesimal tightening around Sheppard’s eyes, before a slight shrug. "Yeah, I did a bit of that. Got one of those black marks and... It was a choice of out, or Antarctica."

"And here you are." He inclined his head slightly as he sat back, drawing on the cigarette hard enough to make the end glow. 

"Yeah. Funny isn't it? I gave blood for my country... But, you go back for someone, one of your men and...” He shrugged again. "There comes a point where you have to walk away."

Huh. "Is there?" He held his cigarette in his fingers, taking another sip. He didn't think there really was a point like that. He didn’t think Sheppard had ever walked away. "Well. I'll pass my contact's information on to you. Anything else I can do for you, Sheppard?”

"Nah, I'm good," he said. "Look forward to hearing from you." He sauntered off again in a way that was definitely provocative.

The fuck. Seb exhaled, took another breath, and beckoned to Frank to have him bring the next waiting person over. He was probably just wound up and hallucinating it, that was all. He missed John.

By the end of it he was desperate to either kill or fuck someone just to blot everything out, but he was too tired. He was really sick to death of everything and the last time he felt like this, Jim had come along and taken him apart until the pain made him feel alive and blood was a good thing.

But Seb had lost that edge and he wasn't even sure he cared.

He didn't have the energy to pick a fight, and no one there dared. He missed that feeling, of being undeniably alive instead of going through the motions, of being really present. The whole evening hadn't even really taxed his brain. As things tapered off, he waved Frank off -- he'd speak to him tomorrow, test to see what other things he wanted to get involved in, talk to Blakemore as well. He had to drive himself home, and he was mostly sure he was sober enough to get to the hospital. 

If John would just wake up, maybe he could let himself rest properly, but until then, he felt like he would be letting him slip from his grasp if he went home and slept.

So he headed doggedly to his car, and sat there for a moment, just to settle himself. Just to rest, before he started the engine and drove back to the hospital. If he took his suit coat off and rolled the shirtsleeves up, he wouldn't look much different to the nurses than usual.

* * *

_His eyes felt heavy and tired, and why was drinking tea in Baker Street so hard to do? Quietness and darkness outside, and Sherlock sitting opposite him watching as every breath hurt. He looked down at his chest and noted that he was broken inside. Shards were pushing through from the inside out and his jumper was blooming with patterns of red where the broken edges sawed through skin._

_"You're an idiot." Sherlock said it softly, but intensely. "You're not supposed to throw your life away."_

_He wanted to say no, he hadn't been intending to but it came out as "He's your brother, the only piece of you I have left," and the pain then was intense and jagged. He couldn't breathe to let it out._

_Sherlock tsked, but didn't move, sitting there as still as death. "That's foolish. That's unbelievably self-sacrificing of you, whether he's my brother or not."_

_"What do you care?" John replied, wanting to shout, but lacking the strength. "You're not here, you're...dead. Gone, dead and I don't know which is worse. Tell me what I'm supposed to do?"_

_"Live. Obviously. You have people who care for you. You'll be missed if you get yourself killed." And so had Sherlock, and it hadn't fucking mattered. He *missed* Sherlock, and it felt like a gaping chest wound._

_He looked down and it was. It still was after all this time, even loving Seb, losing Sherlock had left something raw and gaping in him and he was walking around with his life pouring out. "Like you are,” he said quietly. "Like… You’ll always be. You died for me. How could I do anything else?"_

_"You could live. You should live. It's... pointless if you don't." Because Sherlock had died or gone away or whatever the hell he'd done, for John. So John could live, with a ruined reputation and that chunk of him ripped out so that nothing felt quite right since._

_"You don't get to tell me if I am pointless or not. You don’t get to do that... you...” John wanted to tell him something he had no words for. Fuck it. "I needed you and you decided I could live without you. For once Sherlock you were wrong. Completely wrong. "_

_"But you've *lived*," Sherlock countered. He didn't move still, stiff and unliving in the chair across from him. "You've carried on. I did what I had to, or else everything would be different. Mrs. Hudson would be dead. Lestrade would be dead. You'd be dead."_

_"It doesn't make it hurt any less," John replied. "I didn't even know. I didn't even know I loved you. How fucking ridiculous is that? I would rather have died than see you fall. You didn't give me the choice."_

_"No, I didn't." He sounded sharply imperious, and that sounded right to John, made the pain in his chest throb worse. "There wasn't time to consult with you. Then again, you're now sleeping with the sniper who was going to kill you."_

_He knew this wasn't real, it couldn't be because Sherlock was dead but even in John’s dreams the bastard just couldn't be wrong. "Bullshit, you knew before when you sent me away, I know that. I'm not an idiot no matter how often you tell me I am. You and Moriarty, you had your great game, you used your pawns and when the kings topple your knights are left to die. He needed me...needs me. And I need him. And I want a future with him but you..." He didn't know how to say it, how to say he'd been broken and couldn't seem to heal up._

_"But I have nothing to do with that. I'm not here. I can't do anything for you right now, you need to *live*, John. Hurting and angry at me, yes, I understand that." He didn’t understand, he wasn't alive to feel it, to feel pain or to suffer the way John was._

_"You have no idea. You have no idea...and..." It was so familiar, feeling the frustration of dealing with Sherlock. "Fuck it, I'm like an addict. It runs in the family after all. Try being the one that's alive Sherlock. Then you might have an idea."_

_"I might have an idea already. Live, John. And stop arguing with ghosts of me." And just like that, Sherlock in his dreams was gone._

_It felt so real, the sound of his voice again, short circuiting his mind. And he was gone again and he needed Seb there because it was darker around him than he thought, as if the fire was going out. He didn't want to be left in the darkness.  
_

* * *

"Mr. Moran?"

He jerked mostly awake, choking for a moment because his head had slumped back with nothing to rest on, so of course he jammed a knee against the side of the bed on a piece of metal and fuck, fuck his back hurt. "Oh, Christ, I'm awake, yes, what?" He scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

"We've got to do some more tests on John. Do you want to go get something to eat?" Julie, one of the ICU nurses recommended. "You know, if you need to sleep, we could arrange something."

That was the polite way to say he needed to leave. "That's okay. I'll, uh. Pop out." Something. Fuck. He grabbed his suit jacket from the chair, and took it with him as he walked for the door. Out of habit, he stopped and used the antibac, and then kept walking. Fuck. No idea of what time it was or where he was going. And John was a quietly breathing corpse.

There was always that strange surge of relief that it wasn't them telling him John was dead, that faded rapidly. There was the canteen but that was probably closed although one of the hospital coffee shops ran through the night. When had he eaten last?

No real idea. He was still coherent, and he answered his phone when it rang, and kept everything moving. Not that he could actually remember, so he headed for the little coffee shop, such as it was. He could always get a pastry and sit outside and smoke.

He had the bad misfortunate to glance at one of the new papers they had put out, and nearly winced at seeing himself plastered all over the front page. Kitty Reilly had not let the grass grow under her feet.

It was sort of fascinating, like a train wreck, Seb supposed as he sat down with a small cup of burnt coffee and something they were trying to pass off as a crumpet. Christ, where had they gotten that picture? He looked a bizarre cross between hollow, smug, and brain damaged. Jim would've been proud.

Out of sheer curiosity he got a copy of the paper and looked at the story and Kitty had laid it on thick. It seemed he was a shell-shocked traumatized war-hero, tormented by tragedy and betrayal, losing everyone close to him (Becks was conveniently left out of the picture), who had been healed by the love of a likewise damaged man (shame on the press for persecuting John over the Sherlock thing). Despite everything they were modest heroes not wanting a reward... except for his loved one to live.

Well, fuck. That was going to be hell to live down with the rest of the criminal class, but he supposed he'd manage. He mulled over it, finishing his coffee and ripping his crumpet apart to eat in small bits. Becks. He hadn't seen her in days, and it wasn't too late, he supposed. Worth calling her, just to talk to someone before resuming his spot back in ICU.

The phone rang and then Becks answered. "Seb? What's happened?" She sounded anxious and probably phoning this late or early in the morning was not the best thing. 

She probably thought there was some new development, when there was nothing of the sort. "Sorry, nothing's happened. They kicked me out of ICU to run a few tests." He leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. "Thought I'd call, see if I'd missed anything."

"Thank god...don't do that to me," Becks said. "The doctors were saying his brain activity is picking up. That's a good sign."

Except that he couldn't really let himself hope. He could still get pneumonia, he could still just mysteriously go back downhill instead of that slow, steady, agonizing trudge back up from the ventilator. "How is it that I haven't left here in three days, but the doctors tell you more than they tell me?"

"Because I talk to them rather than sit there with a murderous look in my eyes," Becks replied and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Tell me that you you've at least gone home and changed?" 

He laughed, more of a disbelieving snort as he kept his eyes closed. "I did. On Friday." Well, Saturday morning, which... so, he was fairly sure it was Monday or Tuesday, and a quick glance at the paper header confirmed it was Monday. "Have you seen the bloody newspaper?"

"Are you kidding? Have you seen the time? Ours won't be delivered for a couple of hours. What’s it say?" Becks asked. "Don't tell me the fabled interview is finally out?"

"It's a train wreck." He rubbed at his eyes again, and glanced at his watch. Really early, just a bit past five am early. It made him wonder what sort of tests they had lined up for John that they were starting before the dayshift folks came in. That or they just wanted him out for a few minutes, so he pushed down the paranoid feeling that went with the wondering. "It's got this picture of John looking very noble and off into the distance somewhere. No idea where she got the picture of me. I look like I just escaped from a liquor store robbery."

"The dangers of the internet," she said. "Probably from your military days. We get people around here asking about you two all the time. Your interview has probably taken a bit of the heat off. Have you actually managed to get any sleep at all?"

He couldn't actually remember robbing a liquor store at any point in his younger days, but that didn't mean much. "Not really, no. I think I mostly played twister with that damn chair last night."

"Your back will be a disaster. You'll need to go to the chiropractor or something," she said. "Have you eaten anything? I know you."

"I have something this place is trying to pass off as a crumpet. That counts, right?" He wasn't sure why he avoided talking to her, had dodged her since Thursday sometime. It was bizarre of him, given that he immediately felt better for a few words of nothing much. 

"No, it doesn't," She sighed at him. "Seriously, you won't do John any good if you get ill. You won't be allowed to sit next to him and he could be waking up any time. Don't make me bring in boxes of Tupperware filled with random dinners."

"No food in ICU." He took another sip of coffee. "I have it on good evidence that a man can actually live on vending machine snacks, caffeine and cigarettes. I'm not going to get ill." He was thinking about leaving the hospital for a stint, and calling Dr. Thompson to see if he could reschedule his last, oh, three missed appointments. The fact that she'd left him a voicemail the previous week, and he hadn't bothered responding was probably telling. 

"Well, what time are you going home tomorrow? Today...what day are we on?" Even Becks sounded confused, but he had just woke her up. "I can't get in until later but I'm not sure what time Harry left."

"The newspaper thinks its Monday. Maybe I should just start calling at this time to wake you lot up. Don't Tom and Louise ever go to school?" He pitched it teasingly, because yeah, he wasn't sure what time Harry had left either. He hadn't seen her at all the previous day, and he'd been mostly conscious, plugging away at work on his phone, with the ringer turned off. "I'm thinking I might go home now, change clothes before the nurses get any pushier. They probably aren't really doing tests this early, would they be?"

"Sometimes they do it to send blood to the lab to catch them for the consultant’s rounds," she yawned. "I thought it was Sunday. That means I need to go into work at least for a few hours. Jeremy might come and sit with John a bit after we've got the kids to school. He was on late."

"Right." Seb sat back for a moment, and then stood up, folding the newspaper in half and then half again to take it with him. "I'll probably be back by lunch, then." Go home, shower, change clothes. See if Dr. Thompson could fit him in, come back to the hospital, and start all over again. Rinse and repeat, settle into the mundane until it killed him. He halfway just wanted to sit outside, but his head was going on about finding appropriate cover and that wasn't really good. "And, I'll let you go."

"Sounds like a good plan. I'm going to try and grab a few more hours sleep," Becks answered. "This won't be forever Seb. He'll wake up soon, the doctors seem hopeful of that." 

Actually the doctors were damn shifty every time he tried to get a straight answer out of them, in that equivocating way he associated with someone who didn't want to lie to him but was also afraid of the truth. Still. He bit his tongue, drained the coffee cup, and threw the paper cup out on his way past the trash can, carrying his jacket and the newspaper under his arm. "You know I've never been good at looking very far ahead." Or hoping, because if John got better, then what? Then he could have their quiet life back. After a fashion, after recuperation, if he ever let John out of his sight again. "Get some rest."

He hung up before she could get another word in, and meandered towards the parking garage.

He fell asleep again, in John's chair of all places. Did nothing for his back of course, but it was the only place he seemed to feel able to relax even a little. Exhaustion knocked him for six one way or another. And John's chair was soft and broken in, not any worse than any place he'd ever slept downrange -- under a truck was always good, but he had no problem leaning up against a wheel and getting to sleep, or twisting himself up appropriately at his desk and calling it a night, either. It was just a matter of letting exhaustion pull him under, and it had a pull.

He woke up feeling tired again, heavy-eyed with one leg cramped up, and his back spasming, but not so tired that he was afraid he was going to fall asleep while driving. He didn't lose too much time, just three hours.

Still before nine, so time to have a shower which he did even if it was a duck in and out and try and maybe cook a breakfast. He was feeling a bit vague and fuzzy about things and maybe that was to blame. Sausages maybe, a bit of a fry up and then he wouldn't have to worry about it at the hospital later.

That was all going fine up until there was a pounding on his door. "Sebastian! Open up immediately."

He was fairly sure he hadn't heard that particular combination of hammering against his door and his father's voice at the same time since his university days. Which probably wasn't for lack of trying, but he'd been fucking *good* at keeping his address from the old man. 

Seb didn't move immediately, but the second time he heard the door rattle, he flipped the sausages over and turned the heat down before heading to get it. He yanked a drawer open on his way to it, palmed John's Browning and tucked it into his belt against his back, just in case. It didn't matter if it was loaded or not, though John had gotten into the habit of keeping it loaded well before Sebastian had moved in.

The door opened to reveal his father looking enraged and angry as usual, face faintly red at the edges and it couldn't have been from heat. It wasn't warm enough in the hallway, never mind anywhere else in the house. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Have you seen this?" He waved a newspaper in front of his face. "This... travesty. Have I taught you nothing? You NEVER go to the press!"

"Unfortunately, the press stalked me down." He gave a mild shrug, even as he batted the newspaper to one side because he wasn't in the mood for anything that close to his face. "She did lay it on a bit thick." But one *really* messy, all revealed! Tell all! interview got him so much breathing space it wasn't even fucking funny, before the independent investigators started to burrow uncomfortably deep. "Anything else, or can I shut the door on you now?"

"Don't be ridiculous." He barged into the flat, and Seb let him because he was trying to behave, because he wasn’t going to give into his urge to shove Augustus down the stairs. "You know how vulnerable you are when it comes to the press. You don't exactly have a pristine past. I will not have you drag the family name through the gutter!"

"Why don't you come in, Father? Thanks, don't mind if I do." Seb shut the door, shaking his head before starting towards the kitchen. "I'm completely at peace with my non-pristine past, by which I assume you mean my discharge?"

"Of course I mean that," he said pacing around. "Do you know what damage this could do to the diplomatic relationships I have set up painstakingly over years? "

He shrugged his shoulders, grabbing a plate to throw the sausages around. As long as his father didn't stop and touch anything, he could pace all the fuck he liked. "None, if you tell them honestly that I'm handling my PTSD much better now, thanks, and that IED did me no favors. Honestly, I don't fucking care what you tell your diplomatic allies. Do you have any idea how many people I've killed? I just added to my personal body count tally, and no one's even mentioned that." He leaned against the kitchen door jamb, cutting a sausage apart with the side of his fork. It was a little burnt, but he was hungry. Maybe an apple, fresh fruit'd taste good just then, too.

"I'm more than aware that your way of dealing with a problem is to hit it, stab it or shoot it," his father said. "I must insist there are no more interviews with the press. At the moment you are the hero of the hours, but they will turn on you, they always do."

Hit it, stab it or shoot it. Excellent, it was good to know his father's faith in his intellect. "Don't worry, I don't plan on it. Anyway, they turned on me from the onset. Sort of gets it out of the way, seeing as I spent a day in custody, sedated out of my skull." He ate another bite, keeping his attention on not much at all, mostly staying calm.

"Well that is a small mercy I suppose." His father slowed his frenetic pacing. "But there is no repairing the damage that your sexuality being splashed over the front pages has done."

It was actually a very positive representation of his relationship, but that wasn't the point to his father.

"I've been out since I was fifteen," he pointed out blandly, while eating a little more. "So. Thirty years now? I don't exactly call that damage. I managed in the Army, and I manage with the people I work with now. I don't really give a fuck who's bothered by it."

"Discretion is a foreign concept to you," Augustus disapproved. "If you can't do that, then at least try and think of your image. Right now, you could pick your posting, with the influence of the queen behind you."

"But I like my business. I like the work I do. I like the life I've got here." He made a vague circular gesture to the flat around him. "It’s nice." And he didn't usually have nice things. He liked having John come home in the evening and he liked going out to handle his men and their jobs, he liked making deals and managing it all, and he liked putting it all into power-point and lengthy reports for Mycroft. He didn't need to keep *climbing* -- to where? And why?

"This? Nice?" He looked horrified. "This is a substandard apartment in a substandard area of London. You've always lacked in ambition. What on earth can, can this... offer you?"

He smirked a little, shifting away from the doorjamb as he set the plate down. "Do you want to be let in on a little secret?"

"By all means, enlighten me," Augustus said, gesturing for him to continue.

"After I quit that job you arranged for me, I took to a life of crime." He slid his hands into his pockets, because the time it took to pull them out would buy his father time to escape if he started off at Seb. "This manic little fucker came into the bank to apply for a loan. First customer. So we get to talking, and I'm asking all of the questions, and mid-way through he just leans across the desk and says, ‘I hear you like shooting people. I need someone who likes shooting people.’ So, I quit."

His father stood there gaping at him. He looked like he was going to either explode or stroke out. Whatever that had triggered in his head was not something he could deal with. "I will not be mocked!" he hissed. "That's all you ever do to me, Sebastian."

Fuck that felt good. He shrugged his shoulders, watching his father stare. "What the hell do you *think* I do for a day job? I have obscene amounts of money, drive a new Audi every year. I still have six bedroom flat in Westminster, except Jim fucking *blew his brains out* and I can't live there anymore and keep my sanity. I stay in this 'substandard' apartment in substandard area because John's here and it's quiet and I have a little peace."

He had actually silenced his father after all these years. That was pretty impressive. "I assumed... you were a 'kept' man," he said with evident distaste. "And you inherited the rest from him."

It was a shame the silence didn't last. "Somehow, that assumption doesn't shock me. I just wish it did. Couldn't be further from the truth, or closer."

Augustus grimaced and picked up the paper. "If you are going to talk like this, I’m leaving," he said firmly.

He should've just let him go. He really should have. "I was Jim's chief of staff, not his whore. I'm perfectly competent in this business on my own. The embassy in Lima, for example."

He paused at the door. "Embassy at Lima?" he asked.

"Mmhm. Took me three weeks, working alone. Broke my nose getting past customs with my equipment. It's a shame I lost that urban assault hook in Pakistan. Still." 

"That was... you?" Augustus apparently had no idea whether to sound appalled or impressed.

"Yes. That was me. That's what I *do*. Money passes hands, but I'll be honest, I'd do it for free if it wasn't so expensive to do. Getting in and out of Pakistan cost me more money than I want to talk about." Seb took a step towards his father, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "And all I want when I'm not working is a little quiet. I don't need to be surrounded by expensive trappings to be *extremely* pleased with my life."

He just stared at him as if he had suddenly been replaced by a stranger. "I don't understand you," he said finally. "I make my living understanding people and yet I have never understood my own son. So. Do whatever you want. I have nothing further to say."

"Best news I've heard all morning," Seb murmured, waving slightly as if it might spur his father on to leave. He felt oddly better for the argument, which had never moved past a simmer. He left without a word, a far cry from the bombastic entrance and for the first time in his life he had the final word. It was oddly liberating.

He hoped it would last.

* * *

It was like the ultimate inability to motivate himself to actually wake up. The cotton wool feeling of morphine made it too easy to wrap unconsciousness around himself and drift back into darkness. However John’s mind could not ignore all the stimulus around him and the dreams were lurid and opiate induced. The terrifying image of Seb falling in front of him, gunned down made him not want to stay asleep, not this time. He didn't want to see him bleeding, trying to stop blood gushing out with his bare hands, so he turned away from it in his mind.

There wasn't anywhere to go. 

It was there when he turned again, and when he turned again, until that was all he could see, drug encouraged horrors that he was sure couldn't be real, he'd never seen Seb shot, he'd never seen him seriously hurt except for the stabbing.

"What the he... ck do you think I'm calling for. You're late, Connor."

Sounded like Seb, and he wanted to see him to check that wasn't there with blood on his face. Wanted to see he was alive with an urgency he couldn't deny. He was lying under the surface, drifting, aware but his eyes seemed stuck closed, and his hand felt like lead as he tried to lift it. 

"I'll snap your -- oh, Christ, yes. Good. You have until then." The hard, exasperated exhalation was familiar, too, the feeling of fingers wrapping around his. "Jesus, they're so stupid. I can't take this shit. You would've laughed at this one."   
Tell me, he wanted to say, want to smile at that tone. It was a warm feeling, something to draw him upwards. The fingers felt comfortable, familiar and he twitched his fingers, trying to squeeze back. Why wouldn't his eyes open? Damn morphine...his mouth was dry and revolting.

He heard Seb make a quiet noise. "Hey. Hey. Hey, John? Was that some palm reflex I found, or...?"

The effort of opening his eyes a crack made a strange grunting exhalation and bloody hell, everything seemed bright. Blurry brightness making him squint as he moved his head. His attempt to say "Seb" was not particularly successful.

He got a soft laugh in response. "John? Hey. Well, that's the best response so far." Fingers holding his hand shifted, massaging his palm lightly.

That felt good. It took another undefined amount of time but he got his eyes to adjust and then opened them properly. And the first thing he really saw was Seb as he tried to blink gunge out of his eyes. He tried to swallow to lubricate his mouth. What the hell had happened? He was numb all over and he wanted some liquid. "Seb?" 

Thank god he didn't have a long name.

"Didn't go anywhere. Hi." It sounded daft and quiet, and Seb was leaning over him a little. "There are ice-chips. The nurses heard you rustling. You're on every iv drip known to man." 

Figured. He glanced around, and wow that was a shit load of equipment. ICU then. What the hell happened? He couldn't remember. "… chips, please..."

"Yeah. You just missed Becks. Harry'll be back around." Seb leaned back, grabbed a cup that looked like it was halfway to melted already, and fished a couple of chips out. "Talking and everything. Jesus I missed you."

The ice was cool and felt fantastic. His eyelids were heavy but he forced them to stay open. "Wha... happened?" Where was he? How long had he been under?

"You took a fucking bullet. You ran out like an idiot and took a bullet." Seb's fingers lingered at the edge of his mouth. "Don't ever do that again."

He frowned confused. He'd taken a bullet? That did sound stupid. "Stupid," he agreed. He didn't know why, but the look in Seb's eyes made him want to apologise. "Sorry."

He made a shaky sound, still grinning maniacally even if he looked weird around the eyes. "Okay. That's plenty. You're fucking brilliant, and I miss you. Just don't do it again. You've been unconscious for over a week."

A week? He'd been out for a week? Shit, that was really serious. He tried to check himself for missing body parts, panicking a little when things refused to respond in a timely fashion. He didn’t remember being this bad when he'd been shot in Afghanistan. "You look tired."

"I am." His thumb was lingering against John's cheek. "It went through your back, hit your sternum, and went down through some miracle. It's sort of a mess. I'm really fucking glad you're awake."

"That's...” Oh fucking Christ, that was really bad. That could have done *anything* and probably had. He had to ask something, but his eyelids drooped for a long moment, and time had passed he wasn't aware of. Seb was still there. "Sorry."

That's all he seemed to want to do, was apologise and he had no idea why. He just needed to.

"Hey. Stop apologizing. You're alive." Which was so very positive and simple and not really Seb at all unless he looked at it as more of a grim determined thing, then yes. Yes, that response made sense. Seb settled into grim and determined like a fish to water.

He could imagine Seb driving himself mad, forced into inactivity and worried. "Yeah," he said. Yeah, he was not going to be able to stay awake much longer. "Tired."

"Go to sleep. You're going to be all right -- just get some rest." Fingers lingering against his face, a hand still holding his. It all felt good, and he wasn't alone. Out of dreams, he wasn't alone at all.

* * *

The first sign that John was solidly on the mend was when, a day later and well settled into his private room, John called Seb an idiot for calling a candy bar lunch, and ran him home to do *anything* other than sit there and pretend he wasn’t courting scurvy. It was an excellent opportunity to change clothes, and tell Mrs. Hudson that she could go by during visiting hours because John was in and out of sleep. He slept more during the day than he did the previous night, which was fine by Seb. He’d stayed that night, stayed up and talked with John about nothing at all. Reminded him what had happened and who he’d taken a bullet for, told him about the story and running into Kitty Riley again, and the hilarity that *that* story was. That John was probably going to get knighted, because he’d saved Mycroft Holmes from a jealous civil servant with too much money and too much time on his hands. A couple of stories, he’d had to tell more than once, because John dozed off. There was still a very good question of just what exactly John was going to remember, but.

Still, it felt good to talk to John, to hear his voice, to hold his hand and touch him a little and not feel like he was going to immediately die. Never mind that he was pretty sure he was using more antibac shit on his hands than some of the nurses. 

Nothing really felt all right, though. He was ecstatic that John was alive and alert, and he was looking forward to having him home, but it wasn’t really clicking, didn’t feel real. 

There were too many things that could go wrong; infections, pneumonia, relapses. John actually seemed quite good until they started dropping the morphine and then it was more apparent how badly he was injured. There were points in the day where it started to wear off rather than being on demand through the syringe driver and that wasn't good. Watching that pain build up to unbearable was almost unbearable in itself, but John assured him when he was lucid that morphine withdrawal was worse and it was better like this. They had been shuffled out into a private room, and there were fewer machines attached to him, though the central line was still in place for ease of access he was probably going to have that removed soon enough.

Right now though, he was pestering him to give him a look at his chart, even though the nurses had said it was always a bad idea for a doctor to look at their own chart. "Come on Seb, I just want to see," John tried to persuade him.

"Yeah, like hell you just want to see." Seb wasn't going to do it. He had a gut feeling, and he was going to follow it just then. "The doctors told you how you're doing. You don't need to see the whole trail of how bad it got."

"I'm a professional," John complained. "All I want to know is when they are going to allow me to get up. It's not good to be unable to get out of the bed. And I'm bored. If I can make it to the bathroom, I'll be on my way to going home."

He exhaled, and got out of the stupid little chair he was folded into. "I want you going home too, believe me. But reading your chart won't make it any faster." Still, he was most of the way to giving in, given that he'd stood up and was taking a moment to stretch. His back hated him every day now, muscles spasming at completely-fucking-random and the occasional breath-taking stab of pain going down his right leg.

"Bugger, here." He grabbed the chart from the end and handed it to John.

"You know, I think most of us have such bad writing because we're hopped up on caffeine.” There were reams and reams of nurse’s notes, the blood pressure checks, and the drugs in the IV, the temperature checks, fluids, and meds. John's expression dropped a little as he read the doctors’ notes. He looked a little grim by the time he handed it back. "Bollocks." 

Seb carefully hung it back on the end of the bed, and was fairly sure no one would notice he'd even touched or moved it. "That good, then? Can I get that summarized in English, or are you going to make me guess?" There was no point in pretending to understand even half of it. He understood injuries quite well -- which broken bones were the best, which ones hurt the most, where to stab for the most blood loss and suffering, what CPR did to a man's chest and how most people who needed it ended up brain-damaged or dying anyway a month later. But he didn't pretend to understand the other side of it.

"It means that I won't be let out of hospital for a while yet," he said. "I don't even know where to start aside from the fact is I need to speak to the surgeon and asking him what deal he made with God to pull this off." He looked a little morose. "I'm a mess. I've seen people blown up by mortars less screwed up inside than I am. It took out a load of my liver but that will hopefully regenerate. I've had sections of my gut removed. My gall bladder's gone. How my spleen is still there I don't know but... My ribs are a mess, my lung... actually better than it has a right to be and the amount of blood I had transfused in that operation would keep a small boat afloat."

While he did appreciate the medical to English translation, Seb mostly wished it didn't sound so bad. He'd assumed it was bad, but it was different coming from a doctor he trusted. "So, I'll bring you your laptop, then."

"It might be an idea." John shifted awkwardly. "Look, you're going to have to start going back, doing things normally. You can't keep this up all the time, being here. Much as I love you here, it's...well..." He gave a painful looking shrug. 

Seb didn't quite sit down yet, just lingering by the chair because it felt good to be standing. What was he supposed to say to that? Thanks, but it's really bleeding quiet back at the flat and I can't take that right now? What if something happens and I'm not here? With all of that stitching and shit, he could drop a blood clot and poof. Neither were really things he wanted to say to John. "I dunno, I think I can keep this up indefinitely. Work's doing just fine. Better than fine, really, it's bloody bizarre."

"But your back's a wreck. And...It's not like I'm entertaining or anything. I'm asleep most of the time, the rest of the time I'm not really sure what I'm saying due to the painkillers..." He looked a bit miserable. "It's going to be like this for a while." 

"So?" He stretched a little, rocking on his heels. "Anyway, the painkillers at least buy me a few more days before you remember you've told me to leave five or six times. You want to make a list up of things to bring you from the flat?"

“When I can focus..." He flopped back a bit. "What's new then? What am I missing?" He asked that same question virtually every day, and when the morphine went up, his memory shut down so it was quite easy to entertain him. Seb settled into the chair again, pulling it in close to John's bed until he had a knee jammed up against the metal railing. It was strange, but bored and frustrated John was a lot easier to handle than himself when he was feeling the same. 

"Not much. A media circus. Congratulations, I think your public image has been redeemed." And then some, because they were still freakishly high profile, too much so for Seb's taste. It left every paranoid nerve had had practically singing, and he was wary of doing more than the circuit between the flat and the hospital and back. Still hadn't found time to see Dr. Thompson, either. 

"Oh god... How much of that has been rehashed?" John cringed a little at that. "I don't want to be in a media circus." It was a little late for that. "Beside it was Sherlock's image they really went to town on, I was just a dupe. How is Mycroft?" 

Seb gave a shrug, because he honestly hadn't given much of a fuck, and he hadn't seen the man face to face since he'd been released from custody. Still, it was easier to relay what he knew than give away quite how much he'd withdrawn. "Up on email, dealing with the source. It was one of his coworkers, actually, so now he's got a mess of internal corruption to ferret out. Nothing we can help with."

"One of his guys used an Afghan assassin cartel to try and kill the boss?" John raised his eyebrows a little. "I thought you shot the sniper... No, there was a second shooter wasn't there? I remember seeing something...metal on the ground and thinking we'd assumed a sniper." He looked a little confused, but more recollection was returning.

"I shot the sniper at 1000m. It was the guy Willie smuggled in. The second shooter was part of Bishop, but already resident in England. He was the secondary." And he hadn't zero'd it in a while, which was the impressive part. Each of his guns had a little quirk, all guns did, but he remembered the quirk of each one he'd hidden. "And you jumped in the way."

John looked a little confused about that. "I can't... Remember. I kept dreaming things, like I was trying to rescue you or Sherlock. It's the drugs probably. Everything is a bit..." He wiggled his fingers unsteadily.

"Believe me, I was fine. I put up a good fight after the police tackled me, mind, but. You know, everything's allowed to be a little." He repeated the gesture, wiggling his fingers at John. "It'll be better when we get you home. At least if you start hallucinating there you've got a nice comfortable bed you can lay in, a good sofa to crash out on, Mrs. Hudson to tut over you..."

"I'm going to be bored out of my mind. I might have to start blogging again," John replied. "In sheer desperation. You know Mrs. Hudson is going to make me drink soup."

"That reminds me. Your site went down, you're over bandwidth." He leaned his elbows on his knees, just watching John. God he was tired. "I left it for you to fix."

John reached out to ruffle fingers through his hair. "Well right now I've got the typing abilities of a cat on a keyboard." He smiled a little. "Seb, I think my dose is hitting the blood stream. Go and take a break while I'm unconscious.”

He groaned quietly, closing his eyes for a moment. That felt pathetically good. "Yeah, okay. I'd still rather stay here," he murmured, not moving until John moved his hand. "I've got a couple of things I need to do." Not that he really wanted to do.

"I'll probably still be asleep when you get back," John said slurring a little. "Wash your hair and I'll do this some more. As you like it so much."

He gave a quiet laugh, sliding his hand up to run his fingers over the back of John's hand. Yeah, that was why he'd fought himself so hard to not do something stupid, because that felt good. "All right, I can take a hint. Get some rest." 

Seb set John's hand back on the bedding, and stood up slowly to see himself out.

It was difficult to tear himself away, because he had this superstitious feeling that if he left, something would happen. But he logically recognized the fallacy of that, even if he didn't feel it. It was enough to carry him out of the hospital and to finally confirm he would make a therapy appointment himself that morning.

He went there from the hospital, because he felt like he was more likely to pick up an unwanted follower if he went home first -- and if he went home first there was a good change that he wasn't actually going to leave until he'd slept a while. He parked a bit to the side, down a street, and started smoking on the walk to her practice. The only good thing that came out of living at the hospital was that he'd been using cigarettes less as a crutch.

They would have banned him from the hospital completely and he could bear pretty much anything but that. He wasn't exactly sure why he was going to see Ella, but it seemed like a good idea. Going was painful, but it was like draining an abscess in some ways, shit in his head he didn’t poke at when he was left to his own.

He hadn't managed to make an appointment since Afghanistan, despite a couple of failed attempts. He supposed she had a lot of patients that were as regularly remiss as he was, John included in them. Just to get another voice, a different opinion on what the hell was going on in his head other than himself was important.

The fact that she cleared a space for him spoke volumes about her concern. No one else was there waiting, so he was ushered right in.

"Seb... A pleasure to see you. Come in, sit down," Ella said as she sat down.

He settled in, trying to not smoke too hard, too fast, because he'd managed to wean himself down. "It's been a long month. Hello. I, uh, sorry about all the cancellations, things keep falling apart."

"Believe me, I think I can understand why, although I am sure what has been mentioned in the media is only a part of it," Ella said. "So, why don't we start with the obvious? How are you feeling?"

"Horrible?" He cupped the cigarette for a moment, focused on what it felt like. "Shaky, unsteady, I, nothing's clicking. I feel like someone wound me up and broke a spring."

"Okay. Is that a physical or an emotional feeling?" she queried. He had spent so much of the last week thinking about John it was hard to refocus.

So, it took him a minute, trying to sort out the difference. "Antsy. It's, uh." He shook his head slightly. "It's an urge to pick a fight." 

“We've talked about your urge to pick fights before and the complex emotions behind them. Which is the dominant feeling this time?"

He rubbed fingers across his forehead, grimacing a little. "I'm not sure. I haven't been able to do anything. I've been pent up."

"So, it is most likely a need to exert control," Ella said. "In this instance, you have been made to feel helpless and your life vulnerable. You react by trying to find a way to exert control and power. Have you had any instances of lashing out?"   
"Just at my father. I mostly... Just can't manage to give enough of a damn to bother. And I usually genuinely enjoy it." Just not then.

“So you had a confrontation with your father? What happened? How did you feel about it?" Ella seemed genuinely interested in that bit. Perhaps it was significant with all the problems they had discussed about his childhood.

“Excellent, actually. He, uh. When we got back in country, he'd invited himself to dinner at Beck's. We had a row then, sometime after he implied John was either a goldigger or a rent boy. He showed up at the flat after that interview published." He took another deep breath of smoke. "I found out that he'd just assumed I'd been Jim's kept man. I corrected him on just what I do for a living."

"You said it felt excellent... In what way?"

He had to take a moment to put together an answer, and it felt simplistic when he did. "I just felt relieved."

"How long have you waited to tell the truth to him?" Ella gently pushed.

“Years. He keeps insinuating that I'm fit for diplomacy." And he wasn't. He liked what he did, he liked the energy it took.

"And your opinion of diplomacy is?" Ella smiled a little. "Actually, it probably doesn't bear repeating... What is more important was whether anything that your father said bothered you."

"Everything? I'm not sure where to start. Implying John was some idiot I'd taken up with, and that he was after my money, that I'm apparently incapable on my own, that I've wasted my potential, never mind 20 years in the army, that I was tracked to become a general. Then, he insulted the flat, which. Having nice things sure did him a world of good towards not being a miserable asshole, because everything is appearances for him." 

"Do you think you judge anything on appearances?" Ella challenged. It felt like a hard gear shift, but there was usually a reason to her doing that. "Can you see any similarities between yourself and your father?"

"I understand the value of using appearances against people," he noted wryly. "And using my own appearance to my advantage. But a person has to live, as well, in there. They're just masks. It's a role."

"And who sees the real you?" she asked. "And who lies behind those masks?"

"Jim did. John. My sister and her husband, the kids." He rubbed his thumb along the side of his jaw. "I suppose you do, after a fashion, but this isn't quite the same as that. That's about it." He gently dodged the other question.

"What is it that they see that others do not?" She wasn't that easily put off, though her push was careful.

"I don't have to..." He made a vague gesture with his fingers, and caught himself, knitting his hands together to think it through. "I can relax. I can let barriers down. I can enjoy myself. Just. Screw around with the kids, sit around and make crappy jokes with John and watch shit TV, I can talk about writing without getting looked at like I'm from another planet. I don't have to be in charge, I can just. Be."

"You don't want responsibility?" she asked quietly. "What have you felt responsible for Seb?"

"I don't know? I'm running a huge empire right now. Before that I had my brigade. There's always something falling through the cracks." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I'm responsible for a lot."

"But you have just said you don't like responsibility," Ella pointed out. "So how is it that you have ended in responsible positions?"

"Poor luck?" He managed to laugh when he said it, at least. "Being accidentally good at it."

"Seb, you crave both control and a lack of it in your life. It is a paradox, a contradiction and lies at the very heart of things. We've discussed before how it figures in your mental, emotional and sexual perspectives, but you've never identified a source." Ella looked at him. "Are you able to do so now?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "No?" And okay, yeah, it figured into everything, he was okay with that. He was comfortable with the way things were in his life, as long as it was all functioning.

"Would you at least try?" she asked and obviously sensing resistance from him said, "This may end up being your thing to work on. We can talk about what happened with John instead."

"My choice of topics that I don't want to talk about," Seb laughed grimly, shaking his head slightly. "Uh, I'm still getting to grips with that. He's alert and arguing with me in the hospital room, which is great. It's still dicey. It doesn’t really mesh, because he was so fucking amazing in Afghanistan."

"Can you explain that? How is this related to how he was in Afghanistan?" Ella asked.

"He, uh." Seb shook his head slightly, looking towards her window. "He kept up with me through it all. That's..." He started to fish another cigarette. "Biggest thrill of the whole thing. John underestimates himself. He matched me step for step. Picked up Pashto again from a level one five to a level two or three, at least, in fluency..."

"And now he can't?" Ella said, rhetorically. "You've said many times that John has been stable and like a rock to you. How likely is it that this weakness is the source of your current shakiness?"

"He almost *died*. He took a bullet in the back, it hit his sternum, and went down instead of up. We didn't even have time to unwind after the trip, after everything that happened, and... Then this. I just haven't had time to stop." He shifted his shoulders, and looked between her and the window outside. "And now John's awake."

"And you still can't relax," she observed. "So first we have to identify what would enable you to relax. What would help right now?"

"I don't know. I don't feel connected." But John was awake. John was awake and kept sending him home, and he didn't want to go.

"What activities have relaxed you in the past?" Ella asked picking at the concepts painstakingly.

It was almost annoying, but he came to her for that, he supposed. "Sex. And fighting." Which took them back to the first conversation in so many ways. The urge to pick a fight.

It was all interlinked and at least he could see that now. Therapy had done that much. "Is there a means you can indulge those impulses in a controlled fashion?" 

"Not really, no." Boxing, he supposed, but he was too vicious for that shit. He wasn't up on the official forms, and he went for high injury moves too often. He’d have a blast, and any sparing partners he had would probably have him brought up on assault.

"It is important that you find a form of release and a relaxing environment," Ella advised. "If not trying a physical activity, then how about visiting your sister or your niece and nephew?"

"Too far from the hospital for my comfort. I don't... I'm lucky I even let myself go this far. I'm afraid something's going to happen if I'm not paying attention. That John'll take a sudden turn for the worse. I don't really have the best of luck with things like that." He gestured vaguely with his cigarette.

"It's happened before..." Ella left it dangling open as a statement or a question. She obviously wanted something from him.

"Repeatedly," he agreed, giving her what he hoped was a scathing look. "Jim... got himself so, it. Mmhn. I should've done something, I just missed the signs it was coming." And he hadn't seen the IED that their truck had hit, and he hadn't seen the fucking second shooter, and... "I. I'm afraid that John's going to show some symptom that's bad and no one will notice."

"I see. So you feel responsible for missing the signs. What signs should you have seen with Jim?" Ella pushed.

"That his mania was taking a turn to depression. The upswings were easier, but the downswings were... unpredictable. I should've put a stop to it." John'd said as much, back in the day.

"How could you have put a stop to it?" Ella asked. "How would you have stopped it with the benefit of hindsight?"

"I, uh." There was a point in the plan where he could've unravelled it all, he supposed. "I would have had to choose to fail a mission he gave me. Or I suppose I could've drugged him. Except, that would've been betraying his trust. I never did that." Irony of miserable fucking ironies, he'd *never* betrayed Jim.

"How would that have stopped him in the moment where he killed himself? Could you have kept him drugged forever?" she challenged.

He laughed, a little surprised. "Fuck, no, he would've turned on me like a rottie and taken my leg off." Which meant he couldn’t have stopped Jim. He couldn't have taken that *sheer joy* from him, of knowing that Sherlock Holmes was truly his equal. At least the bastard had died happy, Seb supposed. He’d died in fucking bullet through the skull ecstasy. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with you feeling responsible for the actions and feelings of others," Ella replied. "Of trying to draw the blame of things for which you are blameless, in an attempt to control what was uncontrollable. To make the unforgiveable... forgivable."

"I'm afraid you lost me there." Did he feel responsible for the actions of others? Occasionally. Apparently, sure, right, he did. "I was with you right up through the control part." 

"One of the most common coping mechanisms we have as human beings for our minds to find ways to control things. Words, actions, emotions... It is something fundamental," Ella said. Her posture was just so damn relaxed as she offered that, too comfortable with Seb, the inside of his head. "However, as with anything, it is something useful that can be damaging in some situations. When faced with a situation where something happens outside of our control, we instinctively start trying to find a way to put it in our control. To be responsible for it. If we were responsible for it, we could have changed it, we would not be powerless. Survivor's guilt is possibly the best known version of this. Through no fault of your own, you live when others die, so your mind looks for reasons. Most commonly it tries to apportion blame, attempting to impose an artificial sense of control. Just because you *feel* responsible for something does not mean that you are, Seb." 

He leaned his elbows on his knees, still smoking as he listened to her. "All right. And? So, I probably do that." He knew he liked to control things, had set routines and things were easier when he could act on them. "What does it matter?"

"It matters Seb, in how you deal with things. Letting go of that induced feeling of responsibility is the part of the process you have not mastered. With that, you become able to acknowledge it was not your fault and let it go," Ella said, looking him in the eye. He could tell it was important from the way she was talking. But it was all just fucking words.

He was fairly sure that was how dogs felt when the humans were telling them something Very Important. And all he wanted was bacon. Well, or to go back to the hospital and sleep. "And how exactly does one 'let go'."

"Part of it is the realization, and that is something only you can do," Ella said. "I am going to suggest you think about this concept before our next session. Now, is there anything you want to talk about?"

Not after that conversation, no, not really. None of it was a magic pill for anything, but he usually had some action to take. Something to be done, but not that time. He was still where he was when he'd come in, tired and wound up and restless. "No, uh. I'm just tired and the easy shortcut solutions are things I don't want to do because they're bloody stupid, so. I suppose I'll just keep being pissed off and tired."

"Try to rest, relax and talk to John," Ella said. "When he is less affected, then he will welcome the stimulation."

"Right." For the moment he was fighting the morphine and juggling pain. "So. Uh, Fridays are probably out for a while, so. You have openings Tuesday mornings?"

“Ten am?” She had that on offer almost immediately.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can make that." It was a weird time and not likely to get messed up with his work life. He started to stand up to see himself out. Sleep, sleep would help a great deal.

* * *

John wondered when he started emulating Sherlock but all he could think of as he lay in the hospital bed was 'bored, bored, bored'. Thank god for the internet, at least now that he was coherent enough to use it. His first few attempts had resulted in hilarity from Seb, who put it away after the morphine had him convinced he had broken the entire internet somehow, when a page he’d typo’d predictably failed to load.

And Seb was willing to drag him along and tease him until he was wound up and perfectly convinced that he'd broken the internet, all of it, and that Seb was revoking his laptop. Seb was excellent entertainment, and endlessly amused by him, though John wasn't sure why. The downside of it was that Seb had a few things he needed to 'tidy up', and it didn't take too much guessing what he was tidying up when he came to the hospital that morning in a sharp suit instead of just whatever hideous plaid he had on hand.

Which left John bored bored bored.

Daytime TV was definitely an incentive to get better. John started to worry about himself when he started contemplating how nice it would be to have an allotment where he could grow his own vegetables. And writing down recipes... He wanted to do something, anything.

Just anything at all, as long as it meant he wouldn't be in bed anymore.

There was a knock on his door, and then it opened slowly, Lestrade sticking his head in. "John? You up for guests?"

"Greg, thank god." John replied with undisguised relief. "Aren't you meant to be at work?" At least he wasn't in scrubs any more. He had some nice cotton pyjamas. He still didn't feel entirely human, but it was better. 

"Lunch break," Lestrade shrugged, closing the door behind him. "I stuck my head in about a week ago, and you were high as a kite."

"Oh god." The previous couple of weeks were a pretty hazy blur to him. He'd suspect Seb of winding him up if it weren't for the fact that Seb had rather cruelly used his phone to capture evidence of the worst episode. "I'm sorry?"

"Nah, it was funny." And he was smiling as he moved in to take up Seb's usual chair. "Huh, I'm surprised the plastic's not still warm. You coming along all right?"

"I’m making headway in getting him to go home every now and then," John said. "I'm... getting there." Wherever there was. It was frustrating, he just wanted to go home. They'd allowed him to get out of bed and it had been a humbling experience. Five steps and he had flopped onto Seb as if he had completed a marathon.

Which was frustrating given that they'd hiked what felt like all of Afghanistan and back. To go from peak fitness to nothing in one gunshot... "Good. I wanted to thank you for your help. Properly. I... you went above and beyond."

"Or across and in front of," John said lightly. "Uh. No problem?"

"Given what happened, John, I was surprised you'd bother." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I don't think I would've."

The thought hadn't even occurred, not really. "I guess even a military doctor gets things drilled into him, like soldiers do. I couldn't let him die...” He couldn't let anyone die if he could help it.

"Or anyone die, unless they had it coming to them. I, uh. I'm glad you're all right. You missed the newspaper article, didn't you?"

"...Uh, yeah? What newspaper article?" he asked warily. He knew about Seb's, maybe it was that one. That hadn't been too bad.

"Oh, the official Scotland Yard investigation to the Sherlock Holmes Affair is closed. Finally. Official paperwork vindicates you both. All cases are re-closed, though some of the damage is still working through the courts. It probably ran in point 4 font under the rest of it."

"Seriously?" John felt a little stunned. As if a weight he hadn't even know he was carrying had just slipped away. "So, it's been acknowledged he wasn’t a fraud? And I wasn't..." Whatever the hell everyone thought he was.

"There in print, yeah. I figured, yeah, let it run under everything else because it was on-going, and the microscope you're under can't get much worse." He shrugged his shoulders slightly again, looking pleased at John. "I'm uh, I'll be honest, I'm still weirded out by your buddy there. Or scared, I'm not sure. Somewhere in between. I think he played that reporter like a fiddle. I wish Sherlock had."

"Sherlock was... More Sherlock I guess. He didn't believe in the power of the ordinary," John said. "Kitty Reilly gave the two of them the same offer. Sherlock said no, Seb said yes." He wished Sherlock had, too. 

At least he could blame the pain in his chest on being shot.

"Damn shame." Greg gave a shrug of his shoulders. "And Richard Brook fell apart, too, but you'd known that. I tried to run it down further, but it hit a brick wall. It's frustrating to know that you've got a lead into probably a slew of crimes, and it just... goes nowhere. How many crimes could we solve if we could just pull that rope, right? The DVD company in Taiwan was paid in cash, and the best I could get out of them was that they were paid by a tall white dude. Well, that's a bloody good lead, right?"

Seb. John knew it was him, but he'd always known. Seb doing what Moriarty wanted, because Moriarty gave him purpose. "Narrows it down to several billion," he offered. He shook his head. "I just wanted people to know. He was rude, arrogant beyond belief, but he was brilliant. A complete genius, and... brilliant."

Greg laughed, looking casual and comfortable. "Yeah. Yeah, he was. He, uh, you know, brilliant people do weird shit looking for something to keep them busy. He used to be a junkie, you know? Hard-core shit. I finally stopped checking him for track marks about a year before you came onto the scene. Mycroft asked me to watch out for him. Given how horrible a job I did of it at the end, the least I could do was take the investigation as far as I could." 

"I appreciate it, Greg," John said. "It'll be nice to not get funny looks about being a possible fraud or an idiot." He just wished Sherlock had... Well, that wasn't going to help.

"No, now you'll be getting funny looks for completely different reasons. It was the only thing I could do, though, felt good to get it done. I... I shouldn't have doubted him." But it was an idea and Moriarty got into people's heads, knew just how to work them and make them react just the way he wanted to. John remembered the few times he'd gotten too close to the man, getting stuffed into the explosive vest and coat to cover, snatched off the street. "So, anything I can do for you?"

"I’m bored to tears. But I guess that means I can blog again. Not that anyone will be particularly interested in ‘Oh, I watched more daytime TV today’," John said with a slight smile. "I'm sorry if I was arsey before... I know you didn't have much choice about it."

"Still wish I'd gotten a picture when you punched the Chief," Greg grinned. "I was an complete arse, too. I'm sorry I just avoided you. It, uh." 

“You know, it's a cliché, but life's too short," he laughed at himself. "Yeah, probably not the best one to use." He could let go of it, now it seemed a long time ago somehow. "I bet Donovan nearly ruptured something in disappointment that Sherlock wasn't a sociopath."

"Still in denial," Greg shrugged. "Anderson moved to another department, so she's got a new partner in crime. She's a good officer, just... It seemed about right at the time."

John shrugged a bit and winced. "Can't wait until I can get up properly and not have a three man escort to the toilet."

Greg grimaced. "Yeah, recuperation's a bitch, but I've never been shot in the stomach before. Do you need me to fetch someone?"

"I don't recommend it. Bloody ridiculous -- I go to Afghanistan, make it out with cuts and bruises and then get shot in London," John commented. 

"I wasn't going to point out the irony. My heart dropped when I saw you'd been in that convoy and had gone missing. Then I saw your friend was missing with you and well. Something about him just makes me think everything's part of a plan. That involves kneecaps, a car jack, and uh." He laughed, making a vague gesture. "Like, a dental drill, somewhere in Argentina. Whereas, Sherlock always left me feeling like if I crossed him I'd wake up at the bottom of a lake with a big plastic bag tied over my head, just so I'd wake up soon enough to experience running out of air."

John blinked. “I guess that most people do. For me it was like grabbing a tiger by the tail. And yeah we were following up on something for Mycroft, but that convoy attack? Completely legit."

Greg had been in on the investigation, definitely, he remembered that, even if he hadn’t been fully informed on how Seb was working it. "You guys came out all right from that, though. No compounded injuries?"

Just a twisted ankle that had well healed now, lost in everything else. "Not really. But we weren't home twenty four hours before it all kicked off. We tipped the balance, brought it forward. It was probably going to be a combined event on the June Jubilee bank holiday."

But they had triggered Mycroft to be personally involved and he had been out in danger.

"Huh. We should probably see what else is going there, start probing." He sighed, starting to stand up. "I'm still holding you to that drink, when you get out. It might have to be non-alcoholic, but I'd still like to."

"Yeah, come by any time Greg, and save my sanity. Few more weeks and I should be able to go home." Maybe even sooner. He had to have another round of scans to see how he was healing up, but they might let him out if only to stop the disruption at the hospital.

He had his fingers crossed, metaphorically. "Only a few *weeks*?" Greg made a disbelieving noise. "Jesus. right, I'm bringing you a book or something next time."

Privately he wanted it to be less, because he'd already been in for three and a bit and he couldn't remember many. "Anything. Otherwise I'll be an internet addict. And food. Junk food."

"You're having me smuggle in contraband, aren't you?" Greg gave a small wave as he reached to pull the door open, and had it open for him. He startled briefly, and grinned as Mycroft stepped into the room. "Now you've officially got a revolving door. I'll leave you to it."

"Yeah. Thanks Greg," John replied and looked at Mycroft. Well, this was a first. If Mycroft had visited before, he had been too drugged to remember it. He raised a hand in a little wave. "Hey."

He was quiet until Greg left, and the door was shut. "I had a meeting with Sebastian yesterday, and he mentioned you were quite lucid." 'Quite lucid' was probably code for able to remember more than one day consecutively, which was true. "How are you?"

"I've probably graduated to mostly lucid," he replied, quirking an eyebrow. Seeing Greg had improved his mood and he gestured. "Have a seat. I've been started on solid food, I've taken a few steps out of bed. That's all the news really."

"Still, progression is positive." John could imagine that the next words out of a normal person's mouth would have been 'thank you', or some sort of hesitation. Mycroft simply looked thoughtful and coolly composed before he offered, "I suspect you're going to end up knighted."

Seb had joked about it, but John had thought it really was a joke. "Oh my god," John groaned. "I thought he was winding me up! What about the whole... Sherlock thing?"

"Our friends with the police have finally solved it. It only took them a year." Mycroft sounded faintly disgusted with them, just a slight undercurrent to his voice. "Which I presume Detective Lestrade was just informing you of."

"Yes, I missed it," John said. "I'm glad Sherlock was cleared. Really, really glad. Did you send the tape?"

Mycroft blinked, and then inclined his head slightly. "Yes. It came from Sherlock's cell phone. He'd recorded the conversation." It still hit him. Every goddamn time, it still hit him hard. Fuck. He didn't trust himself to comment on that so he nodded and cleared his throat because like magic those moments replayed again.

He was there again, standing there and looking up and he didn't want to be. It was horrible, seizing hold of him. "It needed to be done. I see they also reached the limits of the small piece of Moriarty's empire Richard Brook consumed."

"It's best just to end it there," John said trying to shake it off. "For Seb's sake. Dig into Richard Brook, you dig into him, from him to you."

"Oh, indeed. I cannot say enough about how helpful it has been to have an 'in' into that world. My previous attempts to create something similar had..." He hesitated. "Evaporated. Finding an individual who truly relishes it for the sake of it, rather than the money, is rare. Even in government."

"Seb... is a good man Mycroft." Even though he knew some of what Seb had done in those two years, and that it was the tip of the iceberg, he was sure that Moriarty had twisted him and aimed him. Sure of it. "Don't screw him over."

He shook his head slightly, as if it would never cross his mind. "John, I have never had a more loyal member of the criminal element in my employ. I have done my utmost, and will continue to."

"Thank you." It was a relief, he had to admit. "Right now, I can't watch his back. It's an... Interesting world." Rubbing shoulders with the other Criminals Significant Others. That had been useful, and something that could continue to benefit Seb.

"Yes. Yes it is. I don't envy you, John, juggling that, but I know you're capable. You proved it with this entire operation." He hesitated for a moment, and then added, "I still don't understand why you did that for me."

He frowned a little. He couldn't trot out 'just doing my job' or it was a spur of the moment thing. It wasn't. They'd gone there ready to stop it all, to save Mycroft. It wasn't even about national security because if it was he could have kept trying to leave a message rather than breaking into Buckingham palace grounds. A dim thought stirred, fragments from a dream. "Why did I save you? Aside from that's what I would do?" He took a deep breath. "I guess, you're the only part of him I have left."

It was a brittle, painful admittance.

There was just a flicker, a glance in his eyes that told him that Mycroft was feeling something. "You need to move on, John. We all do." And yet, they *weren't*. Given thirty seconds, Greg had brought up Sherlock. 

Unprompted, just. Reminisced, sunk into old stories. He’d left a mark on all of their lives, and it wasn’t just going to go away because it bothered any one of them.

"Yeah, well, I have. And I haven't." He had Seb, and it worked, it completely worked because he loved him but something good happening after something bad didn't mean they cancelled each other out. He had the good yeah, but he still hurt. "That's the way it is." And the way it always would be, because a year and more down the line and he could believe all he wanted but dead or alive, Sherlock wasn't coming back.

And really, he knew even thinking Sherlock was still alive was so delusional that he didn't want to say it out loud. He swallowed it instead, and watched Mycroft nod at him. "I encourage you to move on, John. Not to forget Sherlock, but to continue embracing what is here now."

"Thank you Mycroft, I get it." John shifted uncomfortably and couldn't resist, because seriously, that was Mycroft’s version of a pep talk? "Just as well my subconscious hasn't got the message, otherwise you wouldn't be here right now."

Mycroft flicked his eyes up towards the door, and smiled slightly. "I see your subconscious politely awaiting his turn outside. I'll go now -- thank you, John, but please don't take another bullet for me."

"I'll make a note.” Like he could stop himself if it was Seb, Mycroft, Becks, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg... It wasn't exactly thought, more an instinct. That was who he was, and to not do it, he would have to be dead already. He couldn’t live, and not think… And not think what if, and what he could’ve done and what he didn’t do. He was always going to see Sherlock standing on the roof of St. Bart’s and think, oh god, what could he have done?

“Please do, and get your rest, John.” He waved with the fingers of one hand towards the door, and started to stand up just as Seb stepped in. Seb looked as sharp as he had that morning, but there was mud on the sides of his shoes, and a few winds of fabric tape across the knuckles of his left hand. John could write the story to match that one in his head, without even having to ask.

“Mycroft.” Seb unbuttoned his suit coat, and there was a brief moment of the who was going where dance as they each got past each other in the room. “Surprise seeing you here.”

Mycroft acknowledged his existence as he left, "Sebastian. It was a courtesy call, now that John is coherent."

"Comparatively speaking," John added wryly.

"Mmhm. I didn't say anything." He just watched Mycroft go, and his shoulders relaxed a little when he did, finally. At least Mycroft wasn't one for lingering. "I saw Lestrade in the parking lot. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," John said. "Greg was fine...I didn't know they had cleared Sherlock and myself of being a fraud."

"I was waiting to mention it when I was sure you'd remember." He settled into the chair, pulled it up close to the edge of the bed. "I suppose they figured the media situation was saturated enough, and that it'd go more unquestioned."

"True enough, even if I can't remember much of anything from the last couple of weeks," John replied and smiled. "God only knows how many times you've repeated things." He reached out and took hold of Seb’s hand.

"A lot." Seb grinned a little, fingers stretching. His left hand was warmer than the other, and the cloth tape felt rough. "I had one of Mycroft's people who needed straightening out."

"I can fill in the gaps," John commented. "You okay?" He smoothed over the warm skin. "Feel better for that?"

The side of his mouth pulled up slightly. "Yeah, I do. It helps. So, how're..." He licked his bottom lip, playing words in his head, probably. "You're publically free and clear now."

"Apparently yeah. Hey, and only a few more weeks until I get out of here." There just wasn't a good way to say it. He knew Seb was overstretched.

It showed around his eyes, the way his mouth pulled. Seb exhaled, and put his forehead down on John's hands, their entwined fingers. Sometimes, he seemed less stretched thin than others. It was worse when he'd been where ever his suit ended up muddy and his knuckles split. "How have you not gone crazy with boredom?"

"It's possible that I have," John admitted. He carded through Seb's hair.

"I miss having you home." Which meant that Seb was going to try to stay the night in that little chair. It was funny, but when Seb had casually said John was going to need a restraining order to get rid of him, he'd probably really meant it. 

"I miss being home. I miss being with you." He did. He had started to imagine a future with Seb, and that it was going to work. 

He was pretty sure it would still work, seeing as he was still alive. Seb shifted, still holding one of John's hands while the other roamed, kissed his palm, the edge of his wrist. "I want to do things that would completely get me banned from here."

Oh god, they would, and despite John feeling crappy most of the time. "Mmm, soon… We should be able to think of something. Maybe you should entertain me with what you really want to do."

"You only think that sounds like a good idea. The way it really goes is you go, ‘damn the rules’ and get caught, or you sit there hot bothered and frustrated." And Seb was still pressing kisses to the inside of his wrist like John wasn't an antiseptic and stuck too long in the hospital mess. "Or it turns into accidental bloodplay, but I honestly think I'd be too busy freaking out about your stitches." 

"Like you said, maybe not a good idea." Entertaining though, very distracting but possibly not the sensible thing. "Can you manage a kiss without getting overwhelmed with desire for me?" His rather spindly looking body now, considering all the weight he'd gone down.

"Possibly." It wasn't the slightest bit sarcastic, as Seb leaned up and started with a kiss against the edge of John's mouth. It had been too damn long, but it didn't feel foreign at all, or the hand that touched his shoulder, avoiding where the central line had been, even though it was finally gone. 

It was a careful and possessive movement and it made John smile into the kiss even as Seb deepened the intensity. Apparently dropped weight was no problem for Seb, from the slow way the kiss worked up, tasting at John's mouth until John groaned at the slide of tongue against his own. Seb tasting like toothpaste, tobacco, and coffee. And he didn't pull back when the door opened again.

John blinked and eased back just a little, trying not to smile too obviously. He couldn't help himself. One kiss and he felt good, better than he had for weeks. He wasn't going to apologise for that. Seb looked sideways as he pulled back, and gave a disheartened groan. "Right, caught. Hello, ma'am." At least it was one of the regular nurses. Seb sat back down in the chair. 

"Just checking John's blood pressure," she said and she had a smile on her face that John was interpreting as 'aw how cute'. "We don't want you over-exerting yourself."

"No, no, that won't happen," John assured her.

Seb ran a hand back through his hair, watching the nurse wander to the other side of John's bed to do just that. He was pretty sure his blood-pressure was fine. It felt fine. "I wouldn't worry about that."

The damn blood-pressure cuffs were painful enough. How they expected people to sleep when they had an automatic one on pumping up in their sleep, he'd never know. "There we go," she said, giving him a knowing look. "I'm sure you'll be out of here in no time."

"I'm looking forward to it," John said fervently.

"You and me both." Seb wasn't looking at the Nurse, staring up at the ceiling instead. It was going to be a long last couple weeks.

* * *

A lot of work and planning and organization had led to that moment, a lot of waiting. And Sebastian Moran was great for waiting -- except and unless it was a more personal sort of waiting, and he wasn't going to have to go back to the hospital again except when John had a check-up. Because John was finally coming home, sitting in the passenger seat while Seb drove carefully so no seatbelts got any bright ideas about digging in anywhere. It would've been an easier drive, except that he could see Harry behind him.

Why she had invited herself into the car itself, as if that was going to help somehow, he would never know. John was looking pained already, but he suspected that was from Harry's incessant chatter about herself.

"...and then this reporter tried to corner me in the ladies loos. Who does that? Literally hovering outside the door like some perv. Started shouting questions at me until Clara turned up."

"Clara?" John asked. "As in Ex-Clara?"

The fact that he caught himself quietly drumming s-o-s with his thumb against the steering wheel probably wasn't the best sign. He'd felt every thirty second red light, and every inch of traffic so far, and they were still too far from the flat. Two blocks was too far, and he'd have to drop John off and then find parking as it was. The only relief was that Harry would get out of the car _with_ John.

"Yes, Ex-Clara. Well, maybe ex-ex-Clara," Harry said. "I don't know. Things are... interesting between us."

"Well, that's good," John said. "Is she picking you up from the flat when we get there?"

"Oh, yeah I have to give her a call," Harry said airily.

"Can I call? Can I call right now? Only need one hand to drive, completely willing to volunteer my phone for the noble cause of getting you a ride back home." The fact that she laughed and slapped the back of the headrest hard enough to make Seb's teeth clench meant that she _really_ had no idea what he did, which was sort of comforting in an apparently he wasn't fucking scary enough way.

Either that or she was really oblivious. "Seb!"

"I think what Seb is saying that I fully intend to go straight to bed when I get in," John said glancing round at her. "I'll appreciate your help up the stairs but this will be the furthest I've walked for about six weeks. So, you know, you might want to call in advance."

"Surely you can manage a cup of tea?" she asked.

No. Well, maybe, but from bed, and Seb was very much inclined to get quiet time, just. Just a little. "Being shot takes a lot out of a person," Seb pointed out.

"Look give me a bit of time to settle in," John said. "I haven't been home in... over two months, Harry..."

"Fine, I'll help you up the stairs...” Harry crossed her arms. "Is Becks going to be there? I thought she was tidying up or something?"

"That's the plan." He would've protested, because he didn't like having anyone in his stuff, even his sister. And there were still a lot of Sherlock's things in the flat. Pretty much everything of his, in fact. 

But he had been spending most of his time at the hospital or work so Becks had volunteered to give the place a once over. Harry would have been more useful there.

"I'll go when she goes," Harry said a little smugly.

"You think I don't plan in showing her the door right off, too?" Seb glanced at her briefly in the rear-view, and then cut his eyes back to the road. Another red light, excellent.

"Of course she does," John said rapidly. "It was kind of her to do all this considering we are basically going to chuck her out. Mind you getting this done in secrecy has been a nightmare. As far as the press are concerned, I'm still there."

"That's going to be a nightmare for a week or so when they do figure it out." They'd have to just keep blinds pulled and not venture out often, which had pretty much already been Seb's master plan. He was pretty sure John wouldn't notice when the milk ran out and they swapped to powdered. Should buy him another day or two.

"We'll just have to give the interview, like you did," John replied. "But not until later."

"Maybe they'll stop chasing around after me then," Harry said. "Word is going to get out quickly."

"Lie and say we've run away to Uruguay." Seb's mouth twitched and it had nothing at all and everything to do with imagining dropping reporters out of a helicopter over open water.

"Maybe you ought to go away on holiday or something," Harry suggested with a shrug.

"Maybe we will, when I'm allowed to fly," John agreed. "We'll see."

Vacation right there in the flat. Seb coasted through a barely turned yellow, and made it through the next intersection at a green before finally turning onto their street. "Here we are."

When they pulled up, Harry got out, and John murmured. "Don't leave me in there alone too long," before he got out slowly and with a lot of care.

"Just have to go around, park and catch back up with you." He'd jog, run. It was like reaching the end of a marathon and seeing someone holding a nice beer out for him as a reward. Except that was more like getting to the end and up the stairs and then being able to sleep, really sleep without being half on fucking edge because what if something had happened and he wasn't there? Which was different than being on edge and wondering if Jim was going to slit his neck in his sleep. Wondering if John was going to die without warning had been a lot more stress inducing, because he hadn’t had a lot of control over whether Jim was finally going to off him in his sleep.

Finally, Seb was going to have John at home. The both of them had been going crazy in the last week or so. John had started having some spectacular arguments with the doctors because he reckoned he was ready, and they were being cautious. Parking up was easy enough and he did jog back, and up the stairs. ...

To find John still staring at the transformation that Becks had made of the flat. It was practically sparkling. Things were put away, there was the smell of disinfectant and bleach. The sink looked like it had been polished, no dishes on the side, everything tidy.

"Wow..."

"I didn't want there being any sources of infection," Becks said. "The kids helped. We changed your sheets, too."

Damn. He sidled in close to John, surreptitiously sliding an arm around him. He was standing, cane in hand for good reason that time, and there was still a flight of stairs to get him up to get him to his bedroom.

"Dust probably got the last set." Fuck, they hadn't slept in John's bed since before the big flight out. It hardly looked like home, except the books were there (even if the bookcases looked like they'd gotten a tidy, too). They'd left the weird shit that Seb was used to -- headphones on the cattle skull was normal, the usual clutter, but it was all... tidy. Like something was missing.

It took a while to piece it together, but as John was thanking his sister and Becks for their help, he realized that Becks must have packed away Sherlock's stuff. It was faintly startling in a way, but she had done what he hadn't been able to do. It was half a shock and half a relief.

"It's no problem, John," she said. "We put anything we didn't know what to do with in the closet if you want to find anything we've tidied away." She was looking at him when she said that though. "Harry and I better be going."

"Yeah, sorry about rushing you off." He was lying through his teeth, and smiling when he said it. "You'll have to come by for dinner in a week or so. I'll get a few pigeons off the roof..."

"Yeah yeah," Becks hit at him with her hand. "Kids! Come on we're going. You coming, Harry?"

"I uh, okay," she said giving John a brief kiss. "See you soon and don't strain yourself okay?"

"Won't let him," Seb half-promised. He pulled away for a minute because Tommy had excited! questions! about the dead tiger in his bedroom and why did uncle John and he have separate rooms, and whose stuff was that and Seb shushed him down quickly because yeah, that'd take about three hours to talk him through without using swears that Becks would smack him for. The kids were down the stairs before their sisters, though, and that was quick enough.

There was a moment of complete silence after the closing of the door, and John turned towards him and beamed. "Thank God."

"I really do need to get you into bed." Seb said it, and then let it linger because the double and triple entendre layered in that statement were enjoyable and not reasonably possible.

"Yeah, you really do." John was looking at him. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. I'm not so tired I can't do... Something."

Seb gave a quiet tsk, running his fingers across John's back lightly. "I'll hold you to that, just. Let's see how you feel after you sleep. In your own bed. Without a blood pressure cuff or lights on all the time, or me falling out of a chair at weird hours of the night." Not that John needed protecting or for someone to watch out for him. He didn't, he really damn sure didn't, but that was what Seb did well, watched out for people.

He could wait indefinitely, as long as he knew where John was. "Nurses laughed like hell when I hit my chin on that bar."

"So did I," John replied. "So I get to have naptime, then Seb time?" he asked hopefully.

"Who said they have to be separate?" He nudged at John, started to walk him forward, close enough to lean in to kiss the side of his neck briefly. "I want to suck you off."

"I'm not going to object to that. I want to do something for you, I want to... do something I can do, even if it is just jerking you off, I want that," John replied. He was still slow going up the stairs to the bedrooms and again they were impressed when they went in the room. It was clean and very tidy, and John smirked at Seb.

"My sister's a saint for tidying that. Hey, there's a floor rug here." The light elbowing was good, so Seb shifted, turning John around a little to undress him. It was a shame that John was going to be button downs for a while, but stretching his arms over his head still ached. "The things you never notice, huh?"

"Who knew?" John smirked. He was still painfully thin, even though he had been eating in the hospital, and there were clear scars that were still bright against his skin from the surgeries.

Bright pink and angry red in places, but sealed up. Safe and done, everything inside where it needed to be, which made Seb feel much better as he pushed John's shirt back off of his shoulders. The thinness could be fixed, but he still took his time touching John, leaning in to kiss him while he touched him, letting his fingers trace rippled skin. "Christ."

"I know, pretty grim aren't I?" John replied. "You could play noughts and crosses on by stomach." The entry wound was on his back as well. "I like that...keep touching...."

Seb gave a shaky exhalation against John's skin, slowly backing John up to the bed. He could play xylophone with portions of John's spine when it had all been solid, muscle and familiar before. Seb's fingers kept exploring, stroking, feeling, comparing old and new and discarding old because new was the new old, or would be once he got John better than alive, but healthier, too. "I don't plan on stopping." His skin still tasted the same, and John still gave the same uneven noise when Seb bit lightly at the edge of his jaw.

"Mm." John went back, sat down on the bed. "So many times I've dreamt of being back here. With you."

"This is where my romantic edge fails me. I vaguely recall dreaming about twix, and coffee, and then the chocolate melted off into the coffee and you rose from the cup like..." He gave a quiet laugh against John's neck, trying to work his own clothes off without having to lean away from John. "And then I woke up. Realized I was napping in my car and there was some bloke standing there with a tire iron, and I'll be honest, I can't remember where that dream was going."

"Oh, yeah. Chocolate, I can have that now," John smiled happily, trying to help with slightly less coordination. "Mm. You are going to spend time in here with me. Resting. And... doing this."

"Complete hardship. I'll have to move my office from the sofa up to here." He started to unbutton John's trousers, shifting slowly to kneel and press kisses against John's stomach, the edges of scars where they'd opened him up to fix the bullet's damage. It had gone through John's lung at some point and back out, and a nurse had counselled him about his smoking, as if it was his fault that John's lungs weren't shiny and pink or whatever colour they were supposed to be when they weren't covered in blood. He'd just keep it to a minimum around John, just in case. 

"At least you stand a chance of not wrecking your back," John said. "I want to get all those kinks and stiffness out of your back, massage it away like I did before."

"We have plenty of time." Lazy mornings and everything. It wasn't as if he had a really pressing must be physically present for work schedule, just random fucking hours. He'd be able to keep John just as much company as he had before.

In a lot more comfortable circumstances. He slid his hands in the back of John's trousers, just enough to shove them out between John and the bed and have them bunch up around John's thighs while Seb licked a line up from John's navel.

"Oh god..." John shivered as he did so. He could feel the difference in skin to new tissue as he licked.

Fingers on the back of his neck, John steadying himself on Seb instead of the bed because yeah, Seb liked that, missed the touch, liked the grounding feeling as he mouthed the outline of John's erection through his underwear. Everything had been too high profile at the hospital for him to do more than touch John a little, but to get that, to do whatever the fuck he wanted felt good.

It was food to the starving, and he craved the reassurance of John's touch. It was worrying sometimes, worrying how much he seemed to need John, in a different way to Jim.

Jim had reminded him he was alive by keeping everything on a knife's edge of dangerous, delicious and daunting and sharp and fucked up, and sometimes he missed that. But the feeling of fingers sliding over his own skin, of having some of his want returned, of being more than just a tool to be wielded and a useful fuck on the side... was another way to be reminded he was still alive. Different didn't mean better, but yeah, maybe it was better. 

It felt better when he slid John's underwear down and could take his time without choking, sliding his lips along the underside, leaving a wet trail before he managed to get the head in his mouth hands free.

"Oh god..." John made wonderful sounds when he was like this. He quivered underneath him shakily. "Fuck, that's amazing."

He hummed around John's dick, closing his eyes as he focused on the taste, the smell, the feel, everything but staring John's scars dead on until his eyes crossed. He could feel them instead, with his hands, one hand at John's back and the other roaming where he liked, mostly feeling the muscles of John's thighs spasm, start to twitch, to thrust a little.

"I'm, no, I can't hold... on." John gasped, and he was moving against him, pushing weakly and panting already, proof of his physical condition. "Fuck..." And he was coming already which was a minor miracle considering how weak he had been.

Not that weakness generally did much on the human sex drive. Seb swallowed, took his time easing back even if the twinges of sensitivity made John make lovely noises before he started to press kisses against John's hip. Something about doing that generally just left him feeling pleased with himself.

"Jesus," John panted. "That was as good as I imagined." He breathed slowly and carefully stroking over Seb's hair and skin.

"Good." There was something very soothing about that, and erotic at the same time, letting someone that close, close enough to breathe them in. He stayed there, kneeling and letting John touch him until his knee started to protest, and even then he stayed close, levering himself up mostly because it was easier to get his pants off that way. "You probably should sleep."

"Let me finish you off first,” John said. "Please? I just want to be able to do that, rather than just lie here like a useless lump."

"You're a pretty hot useless lump," Seb teased, nudging John to lay down on the mattress, into his usual spot. It was easy to get shoes and socks off, to crawl under the sheets naked with John, uninhibited. No suspicious contractors, no afghan nationals, no siblings, no nurses, not even Mrs. Hudson was going to interrupt them. 

John slid in behind him, just so he could reach over him lazily and get a hold of his cock, while wrapping himself around Seb.

"Oh, that's nice." It always felt better than his own hand, which wasn’t saying much given that his masturbation habits had taken a turn for the repetitive and uninteresting of late. Mechanical. John sliding in behind him in bed was nicer, warm skin against his back.

"Mmm, you wait until I've got some strength back," John said stroking him firmly and carefully. "I promised you a night to remember...” He was nuzzling the back of his neck and shoulder, too.

It felt good, even if there was nothing for him to hold onto except to twist a little and slide his hand along John's side. "Uhmn, won't say no to that." Another stroke made him stretch one leg, huffing a laugh. Fuck, yes, that was so much better than his hand, so he let out the groan he wanted to give.

"You never do," John murmured in his ear, warm behind him and half laughing. "Mm. That feels good. All that holding back around the nurses..."

"Was maddening," Seb agreed, rocking his hips against John's fingers. It took a moment to relax, but lips against his skin helped. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just closed his eyes and felt, enjoyed John's fingers and the way it made his dick ache urgently.

"Mm...I know, I was there," he said and his other arm wound around him, underneath his body.

It really went against most of his instincts, which Seb supposed was why it was so alluring. He gave a startled laugh, pressing his heel against the mattress to rock a little harder against John's fingers. "I think you gave me a new kink."

"Oh really? Which part of this is kink?" John asked sounding breathlessly amused.

"What, hugging isn't a kink? Huh, what planet did I come fr, fuck, from?" He was almost there just needed a few more thrusts and John to keep doing whatever that was.

"I'll go for the full body hug then," John said, hooking a leg over his, stroking harder as he did so.

He groaned, thrusting to match the strokes, and god. God it felt good to just let go, to just trust and orgasm and enjoy it, enjoy the feeling of John wrapped around him. They lay there a while afterwards, even as John wiped off his hand on a wet wipe, and used one on him. "So, that's a good homecoming," John said yawning a little.

Seb shifted slightly, stretching out onto his back after he heard John yawn. God it felt good to just stretch out on a nice comfortable mattress. "That's a good homecoming. Welcome home, John."

"Mm, thank you, and thank you for getting me back here. I really am a bad patient," John confessed.

The edge of his mouth pulled a little, and he twisted into John, pressed his mouth against John's. "Nah, one day I'll show you a bad patient. It involves a lot more swearing and smuggled liquor. It was just... it took time. I'd rather it take time, than lose you."

"It took too much time and I'm sorry," John apologized. "But I'm glad you stayed with me." It was a bit of a shock to hear he might have even thought there was a possibility that he wouldn't.

"Did you think I was going anywhere?" He did have to ask, pitching his voice a little curiously as they lay there, nice and comfortably. 

"No." There was a pause and John gave a little shrug. "I was... there was a point where I thought I wouldn't get better, and you like strong people."

He curled his fingers across John's shoulders, not looking away from John. "I do. And you were damn impressive in Afghanistan. But strong is a personality thing, too. You stayed... very you. Even semi coherent. You were very strongly John Watson. You called me an idiot once for suggesting that you _shouldn't_ jump in front of bullets, because you would if you had to. That's." He pressed his tongue just behind his teeth for a moment. "That's the definition of strong, when you said that and still had all the tubes and the drain, and a feeding tube."

Jim had been face after face, dazzling but without that rock solid presence. "Even drugged I can be a stubborn bastard," he joked.

"I like that." He stretched his fingers over John's stomach, pressed his forehead against John's. "I like that a lot. You persist."

"For the right person," he replied. "I can persist forever."

And for once, Seb was sure John was talking about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another large story in the series, still in editing. We're having too much fun with these guys.


End file.
